Play It Again, Dief
by nutmeg9cat
Summary: A German courier is found dead at Chicago's Union Station. The diplomatic bag is missing. Ray investigates, Fraser has a hunch, and Inspector Thatcher finds herself in his arms. As time goes by, they discover that they all have a date with destiny. Sound familiar? An homage to the classic film, Casablanca. But, you don't need to have seen the movie to enjoy this adventure.
1. Chapter 1

**PLAY IT AGAIN, DIEF**

**(A dueSouth adventure)**

**CHAPTER ONE**

Diefenbaker pressed his nose against the glass and whined in longing. Standing on his hind legs, front paws steadying him on the long windowpane, he looked over his shoulder at the man seated at the desk.

"No, it's not that I think she's not interested," Constable Benton Fraser replied to the white wolf's query. "Perhaps, she's concerned that her offspring would inherit their father's wild heritage." He was trying to be as diplomatic as possible. A fitting aspiration, since he was currently the chief Canadian diplomatic officer in Chicago. _Acting_ chief, that is.

Diefenbaker made a disparaging noise in his throat.

"Yes, you're right," Fraser conceded. "Honesty is the best policy between friends." His blue eyes met Dief's brown. He said, not unkindly. "She's out of your league."

Dief whined.

"I'm sorry. You wanted candor."

The wolf sighed and cast one more lovelorn glance at the Afghan purebred on the sidewalk below. He padded to the center of the room, and lay disconsolately on the Persian rug.

Fraser shook his head. Since he had moved into the big office last week, they had gone through this pantomime twice a day as the unattainable object of Dief's desire was walked past the Consulate for her morning and afternoon constitutionals. Inspector Thatcher had ordered Fraser to occupy her office during her absence, as befitted his temporary upgrade in status.

He'd have preferred his small, windowless room down the hall where Dief stayed out of trouble. So far, the only thing that had been broken in these more luxurious premises (besides one lupine heart) was a porcelain vase, a casualty of love at first sight and one wildly wagging tail. Fortunately, Turnbull had found an identical piece in an antiques shop on Wacker and Ray had talked the shop owner down to $150. While Fraser would be eating lunch at Lou's hot dog stand for the next several weeks as he repaid Ray's loan, he considered himself lucky that this was the only untoward event in an otherwise uneventful fortnight.

Uneventful, but nonetheless, time-consuming. Performing the requirements of both his job and the Inspector's had left Fraser with little free time, and that was used for eating, sleeping and the demands of personal hygiene. He hadn't seen his friend, Ray Vecchio. His father had dropped in, taken one look at the mountains of paperwork, and promptly disappeared. Even his neighbors noticed his absence. As they had passed in the stairwell late Tuesday evening, Mr. Mustafi had complained bitterly that he had been drafted to tote groceries for the ailing Mrs. Campbell and then was stuck in her apartment for an hour listening to the details of her latest medical procedure. Fraser apologized profusely, but the older man muttered his complaints all the way to street level.

The Inspector, who had been attending a high level diplomatic conference in Washington DC, would be back at work in the morning. And life would return to normal, or rather, what passed for normal at the Canadian Consulate of Chicago. He'd be glad of it. Even sentry duty would be a welcome change from the never-ending paperwork and telephone calls. A little voice in his head (which sounded remarkably like his grandmother's) reminded him that all work in the service of his country was worthwhile, no matter how tedious or dull.

He turned his attention to his final Form 10998B report. He checked it for errors, initialed in two places, and signed his name. Among other items, it duly noted the loss of the vase, its replacement, and the written reprimand of Deputy Liaison Officer Benton Fraser by Acting Chief Diplomatic Officer Benton Fraser. He surveyed the geography of the mahogany desk top. To the north, fittingly, the official correspondence and communiques from Ottawa were neatly stacked in ascending chronological order. Around the points of the compass were the remaining letters, memos, bulletins, and messages for Inspector Thatcher's perusal on the morrow, arranged in descending order of priority. He placed the Form 10998B in the appropriate pile, and leaned back in the chair.

He surveyed the room with a critical eye, seeking signs of his and Dief's occupancy. These would have to be eradicated. His eyes came to rest on a voluminous garment bag hung from a hook high on the bookcase. He had picked up the gown at the dress shop that morning, reassuring the anxious seamstress that the final alterations would meet with the Inspector's approval. He hoped that had been the truth. Well, even if it wasn't, there was still time. Today was Thursday. The Diplomacy Ball wasn't until Saturday evening.

After a moment's thought, he sorted through the stack of correspondence and extracted the pass required for the Inspector's admission to the exclusive event. It had been delivered yesterday by the firm in charge of security. He studied the plastic-coated badge. Two hands clasped in friendship were superimposed over a black and white globe. The Inspector's name, nationality, and photo were overlaid on top of this background. He positioned the badge in pride of place at the center of the desk. Perhaps, the promise of pleasantry would not go amiss before the Inspector dove into the pile of work. He brushed an imaginary speck of dust from the blotter, and compulsively straightened the piles of papers once more.

Satisfied with the state of the desk, he removed his notebook from his breast pocket. He studied the sketch he had made after the vase was broken. It was a miniature of the office, drawn to scale. Using the sketch as a guide, he moved the breakables back in place around the room. He smiled at the framed photograph of the dark-haired little girl – Inspector Thatcher at age nine or ten, and her dachshund puppy – as he set it on the coffee table. He was about to start on the paw and nose prints on the window when he heard a noise at the door.

"Excuse me, sir," Turnbull said. He was holding a piece of paper in his hand. "This just came in over the fax." He gave it to Fraser, then added. "And Detective Vecchio is on line 1." He turned on his heel and left the room.

"Thank you, Constable," he called after him, before pressing the button on the telephone console. "Hello, Ray," he said, warmly. He had missed his friend.

The detective's voice was hushed, as if he were in a church. "Quick, Benny. Tell me about diplomatic pouches." Fraser blinked and drew a breath. Before he could speak, Ray added, "The Reader's Digest version."

Fraser obliged. "The diplomatic pouch, also known as the diplomatic bag, is a container with certain legal protections used for carrying official correspondence or other items between a diplomatic mission and its home government or other diplomatic, consular or official entities. It usually has some form of lock and/or tamper-evident seal to deter interference by unauthorized third parties. The most important aspect of a diplomatic pouch is that as long as it is externally marked to show its status, the 'pouch' has diplomatic immunity from search or seizure as codified in article 27 of the 1961 Vienna Convention on Diplomatic Relations. For that reason, it a breach of international law to use a diplomatic pouch to convey anything other than official items."

"How big is it?"

"Actually, the physical concept of a diplomatic pouch is quite flexible, Ray. It can take many forms, for example a cardboard box, a suitcase, a crate or even a shipping container."

"A shipping container? You're kidding me, right?"

"No, Ray, I'm not," he said. "But, the most common form is a briefcase."

"Thanks, Benny."

"Ray, wait!"

"Yeah?"

"You were never interested in anything to do with consular work before. Why do you want to know now?"

Ray sighed. "The body of a woman – a German courier – was found in a dumpster at Union Station. It looks like she'd come in on the Capitol Limited yesterday. The diplomatic pouch is the only thing missing." Before Fraser could react, he heard Lieutenant Welsh's gruff voice in the background, then Ray responding, authoritatively, "Yes, sir. Funny you should ask. Did you know that diplomatic pouches aren't really pouches at all? Even a shipping container can be considered ..." Ray hung up, but not before Fraser heard the mournful sound of a train whistle in the background.

He dropped the receiver in its cradle, a cold knot forming in the pit of his stomach. The local diplomatic community was rather a small world. It was possible that he or the Inspector or Turnbull knew the victim personally. He wished he'd had a chance to ask Ray her name.

He looked at the fax in his hand. The letterhead identified the source as the Hungarian Consulate. It was brief:

_**To all consular personnel in the greater Chicago area:**_

_**We regret to inform you that Deputy Consul Christina Havlek died in a hit and run automobile accident early this morning. Her remains will be returned home to Budapest for interment. A memorial service will be held in Chicago, date and time to be announced**__. _

He sighed and set the fax on the pile of official correspondence. He had heard the news of the accident earlier on the radio, but the victim's name had not been released, pending notification of next of kin. The knot in his stomach tightened as he thought of the telephone call that, perforce, had been made, informing a family of death in a distant land.

After a moment, he turned his attention to the window. As he sprayed and wiped the glass, the sick feeling grew stronger. Violent death was always disturbing, especially the death of foreign service personnel so far away from home. He supposed his own exile gave the news a special resonance. He tried to focus on the task at hand, but the feeling was growing more intense. He was stooping to reach the glass near the floor when he stopped in mid-swipe. News of violent death was a fact of life for any police officer, much less one stationed in Chicago. So, why did he feel so ... odd? He stood, trying to reel in the maddening, elusive sensation. It was a feeling Fraser had experienced so rarely in his life that it took him a few minutes to identify it.

Either that, or the chili dog he'd had for lunch was disagreeing with him.

He closed his eyes, took a deep breath and let his brain figure out what his stomach was trying to tell him. It took a moment, then he moved to the desk and read the communique again. The fax dropped from his hand and fluttered to the carpet. Dief looked up lazily, then shot to his feet when he saw Fraser's face. They took the stairs three at a time, Fraser calling for Turnbull as he descended.

"Yes, sir?" the young officer said, poking his head out of the kitchen door under the stairs.

Fraser brushed past him, grabbing the keys to the consular vehicle from the hook on the wall. "I'm taking the car." He came back into the foyer, snatching his coat and hat from the rack.

"Yes, sir. May I ask –?"

Fraser was uncharacteristically brusque. "Call airport security. Ask them to page the Inspector and have her report to the manager's office. She's to stay there until I arrive."

Turnbull blinked. "I thought the Inspector said she would take a cab home tonight?" A panicked look stole over his face. "The kitchen's a mess! I wasn't expect – "

"No time to explain." Fraser headed for the front door, Dief in his wake. "Try her mobile telephone, too. Though, I doubt she will have it turned on after the flight."

"Yes, sir." But Turnbull was speaking to thin air. He hurried to his desk and looked up the telephone number for O'Hare International.

Fraser performed a tricky balancing act, keeping the vehicle just over the posted speed limit, yet under the extra five mph that Ray insisted was allowed before any self-respecting city cop would bother to write a ticket. Contrary to his usual practice, he accelerated at every yellow light. But he refrained from running the reds. He told himself it was because he couldn't afford the time wasted if he were pulled over; the Inspector's flight would be landing any minute. But, in truth, he was constitutionally unable to go that far in defying the law or risking other lives. Reckless driving went against his grain and set his teeth on edge, but he made it to the short term parking lot at O'Hare International in record time. Parking was impossible. He left the car in a handicapped space and hurried, shamefaced, into the entrance. He had to leave the wolf outside, over Dief's objection. Animals were prohibited in the terminal.

He scanned the electronic board displaying flight information. The direct flight from Washington DC was on time and had just de-planed. He raced toward the gate as an announcement came over the public address system. "Inspector Margaret Thatcher, please come to the manager's office on Level 4 immediately." The message repeated. Turnbull had gotten through.

He quickened his pace, apologizing repeatedly as he pushed through the press of humanity. As he reached the bank of escalators that led down to baggage claim and up two levels to the administrative offices, he spotted her. She was on the up escalator, two floors above him. Her back was to him as she struggled with her wheeled suitcase, a small duffel on top of it, and a briefcase. She stepped off the escalator and moved to stand in front of a glass half-wall that overlooked the gallery below. She paused to sling the strap of the duffel over her head, then deftly secured it across her chest, never letting go of the briefcase.

"Inspector Thatcher!" he called, relieved to see her.

She turned in surprise and looked down at the tall, handsome man in Stetson and red serge two levels below. Her initial expression of pleased recognition was quickly replaced by a scowl. She leaned over the glass partition and said, "Fraser! What are you doing here?"

A tall figure in a gray hooded sweatshirt loomed over her shoulder.

"Behind you!" Fraser yelled.

The hooded man grabbed the briefcase. Thatcher whirled, surprised, but kept her grip. With shocking, casual brutality, the man stiff-armed her, shoving her bodily over the partition. She let go of the briefcase as she scrabbled for a handhold. The hooded man watched as she dangled by one arm from the rail at the top of the glass wall before fleeing with his prize. A collective gasp arose as other travelers on the escalator and down below noticed the altercation. Several people screamed.

"Fraser!" she cried, kicking her feet in vain as she tried to find purchase.

"Hang on!" he yelled. Instinctively, he had started for the escalator as she struggled with her assailant, then reversed course when she'd gone over the edge. There were other people up on Level 4, though none were close to her. Still, with luck, maybe they could get to her before she lost her grip. But, _he'd_ never reach her in time. If she fell, he might be able to break her fall. His hat flew off as he put on a desperate burst of speed.

As he rounded the bank of escalators, he spotted a large padded bench, upholstered in neon green vinyl, tucked back against the wall. He shoved it ahead of him. At that moment, Thatcher lost her grip. She plummeted with a breathy squeal and landed on the bench with an audible "oooomphhh!" As she bounced up and off, Fraser reached for her. The swinging duffel smacked him full in the face, but he grabbed her, pulling her close. Her momentum knocked him off his feet and he fell backward, rolling her on top of him. The breath whooshed out of his lungs as he crashed to the floor, the shock of impact shuddering through him. He lay still, eyes closed, arms locked around her. She clung to him, burying her face in his shoulder. He felt her trembling, and stroked her back with a shaking hand as he struggled to get himself under control. When he could breathe again, he opened his eyes. Her brown eyes were inches from his.

"You ... OK?" he managed.

She nodded, unable to speak. A flash of light startled them. Their heads swivelled in tandem. A middle-aged woman knelt beside them. Over her shoulder, a young man with a camera was snapping away. Behind him, a small crowd had gathered.

"Are you two all right?" the woman asked, kindly.

Fraser squinted up at her from his supine position. "I ... I ... think ... so." He was still breathless from the impact and the weight of the Inspector on his chest.

She smiled. "Take a moment, sweetie." She patted his arm and sat back on her haunches. "I'm a nurse," she said, conversationally.

"We're ... Mounties," he breathed, half-amused and half-comforted by the banality of the exchange.

Thatcher gaped at the crowd. The flash went off again, and her expression changed. "Let me up."

"You shouldn't move, honey," the nurse protested. "Not until the EMTs get a look at both of you. They're on their way."

Thatcher squirmed. A flash went off, blinding her. "Fraser, let me up," she hissed. As he hesitated, another flash went off. She barked, "That's an order!"

He forced his arms to relax their grip and she rolled off him. She sat up woozily, brushing her hair out of her eyes. She looked at the crowd buzzing around them, trying to gather the shreds of her dignity about her. The young man snapped picture after picture. Fraser, flushed pink at being the center of so much attention, braced his hands on the bench and pushed himself to his knees, then to his feet. He reached for the Inspector's outstretched hands and hauled her up. She stood, then cried out in pain, collapsing against him. He helped her to the bench and knelt to examine her rapidly swelling ankle.

The photographer moved in for a close-up.

"Stop that," Thatcher snapped at him. He flinched at her glare, lowered the camera, and backed away. She turned her laser sights on Fraser. "_What_ are you doing here? _Who _was that man? And _why_ in God's name did you send me up there?"

He followed her gaze to the balcony two stories over their heads, then down at her flashing eyes. He swallowed hard at the thought of what might have happened to this vital, vibrant and very vexed woman.

"I ... uh ... had a hunch," he said, lamely. Before she could respond to that revelation, the crowd parted like the Red Sea. The EMTs had arrived.


	2. Chapter 2

**CHAPTER TWO**

The green Buick Riviera screeched into the empty space next to the black Crown Victoria with diplomatic plates. As Ray trotted to the ER entrance, a friendly woof sounded from under a tree. Diefenbaker popped his head out of the shrubbery and grinned at him, then resumed sniffing at the trunk.

"Hey, Dief," Ray said, returning the greeting. He continued inside, flashing his badge at the uniformed cop at the entrance, who gestured for a nurse to buzz the detective in. He hurried through the security doors, and spotted Fraser leaning against a wall outside the curtained treatment cubicles. He was writing – no, sketching – in his notebook. A wheeled suitcase stood beside him.

Fraser straightened at his approach. "Thanks for coming, Ray."

"She OK?" Ray said, without preamble.

He nodded. "It appears that the injuries are soft tissue only. Her ankle is the most serious. They've taken her down to radiology, but the doctor suspects it's a bad sprain, not a break. If that's borne out by the X-rays, the Inspector will be discharged."

"What about you?" Ray asked, gesturing to the butterfly bandage over Fraser's blackening left eye. The duffel bag had left its mark.

"I'm fine," he said.

Ray half-smiled at the stock answer. Benny would say he was fine on his death bed. He gestured Fraser to a chair and sat next to him. He noted that his friend was moving rather stiffly, but didn't comment. Fine, my ass, he thought.

"So, what happened at the airport?" The message Fraser had left with Elaine had been brief – Inspector Thatcher had been attacked at O'Hare and taken to Cook County Hospital.

Fraser filled him in. Ray was rapt as he listened to the story.

"What was in that briefcase? The final invasion plans?"

Fraser flipped through the notebook and tore off a sheet. "The Inspector dictated a list." He handed it to Ray, who quickly scanned the contents.

"Two pens, three pencils, calculator, legal pad, makeup case, tissues, Scorching Desire." He frowned. "What's that? Perfume?"

"A book."

"Sounds like a bodice ripper," he muttered.

At Fraser's mystified look, he elaborated, "Y'know, a bosom heaver? " He batted his eyes and put the back of a hand to his forehead, moaning licentiously.

Fraser's eyebrows were climbing into his hairline. "Ray," he whispered, looking around in embarrassment as heads swivelled their way. "We're not alone."

Ray sighed. "A romance novel, Benny. Frannie reads 'em all the time."

"Ah," he said, nodding sagely as if that explained a lot.

"Change purse, granola bar, calendar ... " Ray scratched his head as he perused the list of mundane items. "Wait a minute. I thought you said it was a breach of international law to carry anything non-official in the diplomatic pouch?"

"That's right, Ray," Fraser said, nodding in approval. "But, the Inspector's briefcase was _not_ serving as a diplomatic pouch." He tugged on a leather strap draped across his chest. On the opposite shoulder than the Sam Browne belt of his uniform, it formed a bandolier effect. A small duffel bag slid over his shoulder and across the front of his body. "This was."

Ray noted the official-looking seals pasted over the zipper of the bag. "So ..._ if _the perp was going for the diplomatic pouch, and that's a big if, he blew it." A thought occurred. "Maybe, he doesn't know much about them."

"Or, he knew too much." At Ray's quizzical look, he explained, "As I told you on the telephone, the most common form of diplomatic pouch is a briefcase. The assailant may have operated on that assumption in this instance."

"And you know what happens when you assume," Ray muttered.

"Yes, you may make an error."

Ray let that one go, eyeing the duffel curiously. "So, what _is_ in there that would make it worth killing for?"

"Even if I knew, I couldn't tell you." At Ray's sharp look, Fraser was apologetic. "The contents of a diplomatic pouch are absolutely confidential. To disclose the contents to non-authorized personnel would be a felony, possibly even treason."

"That's what the German Consulate told me this afternoon." He looked at Fraser, shrewdly. "So ... you're thinking the murder at the train station and the attack on Thatcher are related."

" It's possible." He added, "There's more, Ray." He told him about the official communique and the hit and run "accident" which killed the Hungarian diplomat that morning. "It may be a coincidence ..."

"I don't believe in coincidences, Benny," Ray said, grimly. "Not when there are two dead women and a third in radiology."

Fraser gestured to the entrance of the ER. "Thanks for the guard, Ray."

He shrugged. "No problemo." He scratched his head. "What did this guy look like?"

Fraser ripped another page out of the notepad and handed it over. It was a sketch of a figure in hood, dark glasses, bushy mustache and beard.

Ray looked at him in disbelief. "You're kidding me, right? This isn't worth the paper it's drawn on."

Fraser was apologetic. "I was two floors below him. And the Inspector only had a glimpse." He added, helpfully, "He was a white male, tall, well-built, in good shape. He wore leather gloves. Hooded sweatshirt, sweatpants and sneakers were of the type that could be purchased at any department store. I suspect the glasses and facial hair were a disguise."

"Ya think?" Ray said, sarcastically. "Did he say anything?"

"No, Ray," he said, grimly. "In the space of thirty seconds, he grabbed the briefcase, pushed the Inspector off the balcony, and fled the scene."

He whistled. "If you hadn't been there – "

Fraser snorted, without humor. "I sent her up to the fourth floor in the first place, Ray. If I hadn't, she would have been nowhere near that balcony."

"Yeah, and she might've ended up stabbed and dumped somewhere between the airport and her apartment." He grimaced. "Don't beat yourself up, Benny. You already got one shiner."

Fraser's hand went to his face and he winced. He consulted the notebook again. "No one at the scene was able to add any more information. But, here are the names of the responding officers and witnesses." He handed another page to Ray.

Ray grunted. He glanced at the sketch again. "Even this is more than I had before. No one saw anything at the train station."

At that moment, the elevator dinged and the doors whooshed open. A wheelchair exited the elevator propelled by an orderly. It trundled past the waiting room on its way to the treatment cubicles. The occupant of the chair, clad in a faded blue hospital gown, stopped the orderly as she passed the waiting room door. "Constable! Bring my suitcase. I need clothes. This ... man," she glared at the attendant, "cut off my Yves St. Laurent suit!" She looked at Ray in appeal. "St. Laurent, Detective!"

Ray obliged. "Want me to arrest him?"

The orderly flinched. Ray winked at him as he wheeled her away. He marveled at finding himself in sympathy with both the orderly and the Dragon Lady at the same time. He had gone through more Armani since he met Fraser than he cared to remember.

Fraser was on his feet. "Sorry, Ray. I have to go." He grabbed the handle of the suitcase.

"Call me when you're free."

"It'll be late," he warned.

"I'll be up," Ray said, grimacing. "I gotta talk to the investigating officers on the hit and run and this incident ... well, you know the drill."

"Fraser!" Thatcher's irritated voice came from behind a curtain.

"Git," Ray said and Fraser and the suitcase were gone. Ray wished the uniform at the door a good night, and patted Dief on his way by, before climbing back into the Riv.


	3. Chapter 3

**CHAPTER THREE**

"This one's my favorite," Detective Louis Gardino said, tapping the front page of the Sun-Times. It showed a black and white picture of a woman dangling by one hand. The image was grainy, but Inspector Thatcher's desperate expression was clearly visible. So were her shapely legs and the hint of lace under her skirt.

"Nah, I like this one," Jack Huey said, pointing to the Trib. Under the headline, "Airport High Stakes Drama Has Happy Landing," the Inspector lay full length atop Fraser, their arms wrapped tightly around each other as they stared with startled expressions into the camera. "They look like they got caught in the act."

Gardino scoffed. "Dudley Do-Right and the Dragon Lady. That'll be the day."

"You guys are rotten," Elaine Besbriss complained. "She could have been killed." She traced the outline of Fraser's face in one of the tabloid pix, murmuring, "Still, it would almost be worth it to fall into his –" She looked up suddenly. Both men were staring at her. She flushed and tucked a stray lock of hair behind one ear. "Really. She's lucky she only sprained an ankle."

"I bet that improved her disposition," Huey muttered.

Gardino snorted. Elaine looked over her shoulder at Lieutenant Welsh's office. The door was shut, but the blinds were up. Welsh was behind his desk, Ray and Fraser had just sat down. She'd like to be a fly on that wall ...

"Thank God, she's alright, Constable," Welsh said, looking down at the several newspapers spread over his desk. "I'd like to send flowers. What's the address?"

"Thank you, sir. The Inspector is staying at the Consulate." He recited the address and Welsh jotted it down.

"Thanks," he said. "Now, where were we?" He leaned back in his chair, hands behind his head. "Ah, yes. Detective Vecchio, you were about to employ your prodigious powers of persuasion to convince me that a hit and run on Michigan Avenue, a stabbing at Union Station, and a purse snatching/ assault at O'Hare –"

"Briefcase, sir," Fraser corrected.

"Huh?"

"Inspector Thatcher's briefcase was snatched. She wasn't carrying a purse."

"Briefcase, purse, whatever. Convince me these three incidents are connected. So, that I in turn, can convince two other precinct commanders to relinquish their cases to my jurisdiction." He looked at Ray, expectantly. "OK, Detective. I'm listening."

Ray took a deep breath, and ticked off points on his fingers. "They were all young women."

"Right."

"All foreign nationals working in the diplomatic field."

"Right."

"All killed or assaulted in Chicago in a thirty six hour period."

"Ri-ight," Welsh drawled. "What else you got?"

Ray played his last card. "The diplomatic pouches."

Welsh frowned down at the reports on his desk. "The one missing from the courier, you mean?"

"And the hit and run, sir," Ray said, eagerly. "Christina Havlek was carrying the Hungarian diplomatic pouch when she was run over."

Welsh's frown deepened. "That's not in the preliminary report."

"No, sir. In all the upset, no one at the Hungarian Consulate realized it was missing until we asked about it this morning."

Ray grimaced as he remembered the scene. The sudden death of their co-worker, and an apparently beloved one at that, had devastated the small consular staff. The belated realization that the pouch was gone had ratcheted up the distress level to Defcon 1 and Ray and Fraser were hastily escorted off the premises so the Hungarians could deal with the catastrophe.

"We checked with the ambulance guys, the ER, and the officers and witnesses at the scene. No one remembers seeing the briefcase on the street, in the ambulance or at the hospital, but the Consulate confirmed that she had it with her when she left, heading to the bank. We checked with the bank." He looked grimly at his superior. "She never got there, sir."

Welsh looked at Fraser, with growing interest. "So, the Inspector's briefcase was a diplomatic pouch!"

"No, sir. But, another piece of her luggage was."

Welsh rubbed his jaw. "So, the perp _didn't _snatch the diplomatic pouch off Thatcher."

"No, sir. He didn't," Fraser confirmed. "But, the assailant may have presumed that the Inspector's briefcase was the diplomatic bag. It usually is."

Ray nodded. "The Hungarian pouch was a briefcase. So, was the German one."

The Lieutenant looked thoughtful. "What about what was _in_ the pouches?"

Ray shot Fraser a caustic look. "Nobody will tell me that, sir."

He was apologetic. "I'm sorry, sir, but to reveal the contents would be a breach of national security."

"That really ties our hands, Constable," Welsh said, in mild rebuke.

Fraser looked pained. "I understand, sir, and I deeply regret that. However, I was able to discuss this with the Inspector. She authorized me to disclose that the contents of our pouch pertained to Canadian _internal_ affairs only."

"Internal Affairs?" Ray said, alarmed. "What are those creeps up to?"

"Creeps?" Fraser repeated. "No, Ray," he said, realizing his error. "I should have said 'Canadian domestic affairs.' As in, not pertaining to international issues."

"Oh, good. 'Cause I hate those guys."

"Now, Ray," Fraser said, patiently. "You don't mean that. Policing the police force is a necessary and worthwhile endeavor, however unpleasant – "

"You mean it's a dirty job, but somebody has to do it?"

"Well, I wouldn't put it that way, exactly, but ... yes."

"So, we agree. They're dirtballs," Ray said, as if he were Perry Mason resting his case.

"I didn't – "

Welsh cut him off. "Gentlemen."

Ray rubbed his bleary eyes. He hadn't yet been to bed.

Neither had Fraser. After settling the Inspector at the Consulate under Turnbull and Dief's protection, he had joined Ray in the small hours and they had worked the cases since. They needed to stay focused, but fatigue was making it all too easy to meander.

"Anything else?" Welsh said.

"No, sir. Not from me," Ray said, glancing meaningfully at Fraser.

Welsh cocked an eyebrow. "Constable?"

Fraser looked down at his hands. "No, sir. I have nothing to add."

Welsh drummed his fingers on the desk for a couple of minutes. "Alright," he said, at last. "I'll move to consolidate the investigations."

Ray pumped his fist in the air. "Yes!"

Welsh said, drily, "Don't be so quick to celebrate, Detective. The other commanders are going to be happy to push these cases off on us. What with the diplomatic angle. Everybody hates that." He ran his hand over his face. "It'll take a couple of hours to put through the paperwork." He pushed himself to his feet. Ray and Fraser stood. "Constable, you're acting in an official capacity on this one?"

"Yes, sir," Fraser confirmed. The attack on Inspector Thatcher made this a joint Canadian-American investigation that fell under his bailiwick as deputy liaison officer to the Department.

"The files won't be transferred till later this afternoon. Get some rest. You look like hell," he said, gruffly. "Both of you."

"Yes, sir," they chorused.

They exited the station without further ado. Once they were in the Riv, Ray asked, "Why didn't you tell Welsh?"

"Tell him what?"

"Why you went haring off to the airport like a bat out of hell."

"You're mixing your metaphors, Ray."

He ignored Fraser's attempt at deflection. "I no sooner tell you about the dead courier, and you break the sound barrier to go catch the Dragon Lady before she goes splat." He looked at his friend. "A hunch is nothing to be ashamed of, Benny. Welsh would respect it."

Fraser looked uncomfortable. "Ray, it was immaterial and irrelevant."

"No, it wasn't," he insisted. "It was ...whadyacallit ... sub-optimal reasoning."

"Subliminal," he corrected, automatically. "And, it wasn't. Not really. It was a subjective reaction, speculative and unsupported by facts. Surely, that wasn't germane to the Lieutenant's decision making."

"I guess you're right," Ray acknowledged. "And, don't call me 'Shirley.'"

Fraser burst out with a laugh. "Good one, Ray," he said, chuckling.

Ray gaped at him. He'd expected bafflement. "You've seen _Airplane_? You?!"

"Well, Leslie Nielson _is_ a Canadian."

"No!" Ray was indignant. "I'll give you basketball and ginger ale, but Leslie Nielson?!" He shook his head, violently. "No way! He's too funny!"

Fraser nodded. "A comic genius. Nevertheless, he _is_ Canadian." He turned in his seat to face Ray. "In fact, his father was a Mountie."

"Now, I know you're just making things up," Ray grumped, as he pulled up to the curb in front of the Consulate.

Fraser opened the door. "Thanks, Ray," he said, over his shoulder.

"Get some sleep," Ray told him, then put the Riv in gear and headed home to bed.


	4. Chapter 4

**CHAPTER FOUR**

The tree root slipped through her fingers and she dropped a foot before she got purchase again. She tightened her grip, and laboriously inched her way upward, but the root pulled out of the ground inches from the top of the cliff. She dropped several feet, before jerking to a halt. Between her dangling feet, she could see the mist and fog that obscured the bottom of Niagara Gorge. But, she didn't have to see the bottom to know the drop was a very long one. With a grunt of determination, she pulled herself slowly up the cliff face, using the root as a rope. Just as she was in reach of the top, the root pulled free of the earth entirely and she was falling, falling, falling, fall –

Meg jolted awake. The movement sent a lance of pain through her ankle, making her jerk upright, which jarred her sore shoulder. She flailed wildly, before she got her bearings. She was stretched out on the settee in her office, a stack of pillows elevating her injured foot. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply, trying to shake off the terror of the dream.

A whimper in her ear made her open her eyes. Diefenbaker stood nose to nose with her, the quarterly budget report clenched in his teeth. It must have fallen to the floor. She snatched the report from his jaws, wincing at the movement. Falling twenty feet even on to a padded bench and a fellow Mountie had taken a toll. She hurt in places she didn't know she had.

Dief whined in sympathy. She patted his head, awkwardly. He accepted the apology and laid his head in her lap. She stroked his soft fur until her jangled nerves settled, grateful for his comforting presence. He was sticking close, sleeping on the floor in the Queen's bedroom last night and on the rug in her office today. She had been too exhausted to object when Fraser insisted she stay at the Consulate and had dozed off on the ride from the hospital. When they arrived, he had handed the crutches to an anxious Turnbull and scooped her up in his arms. She had made a half-hearted protest, but even she had to concede she was too groggy to manage two flights of stairs. When he had deposited her on the bed, the powerful pain meds and muscle relaxers kicked in completely and she tumbled down into sleep before her head hit the pillow.

Come the morning, she was mortified that she had been tucked in bed by her junior officers, albeit fully clothed. Fraser was out somewhere so Turnbull had borne the brunt of her displeasure. She refused to take the prescription pills, swallowing a couple of aspirin instead. She had insisted on reporting for duty, taking the stairs slowly with only the aid of the crutches. Turnbull had hovered, until she ordered him to back off. She had allowed him to fuss once she made it to the settee, even letting him arrange the pillows and bring her a pot of tea. Then, she had banished him from the room unless summoned. Now, the teapot sat cold and empty on the coffee table next to the stack of documents she had been working through. She should get back to it. But, it took all her energy just to sit up and pet the wolf. Everything hurt, even, it seemed, her hair.

Her thoughts kept returning to the airport. That was the real reason she had insisted on coming down to the office. Lying in bed, all she could think about was dangling from the glass balcony and that terrifying moment when her fingers slipped off the rail. She shook her head sharply at her weakness, and pushed the wolf away. With a sigh, he settled on the rug once more, sneezing twice before curling up with his tail over his nose.

She sympathized. It smelled like a flower garden in here. Or a funeral home. It seemed that everyone she knew in Chicago had seen the front pages this morning. She had been appalled to see her picture there; the young photographer at the airport turned out to be a stringer for the Associated Press. And, it wasn't just every newspaper in the greater Chicago area. Turnbull had opened the front door this morning to find the Consulate was an island in a sea of TV cameras. She had been forced to close the building for the day against the onslaught, and the horde had finally departed for greener pastures. Still, Turnbull was kept hopping with the barrage of phone calls. She had refused to talk to the media but had taken the personal calls until the fourth girlfriend in a row asked to be introduced to Fraser. After that, she had forbade Turnbull to put any calls through, with the exception of Ottawa.

She found her place in the budget report, and tried to concentrate, but her restless gaze kept wandering around the room. It settled finally on the garment bag hanging from the bookcase. Because of this senseless attack, she was going to miss the single biggest event in the Chicago diplomatic social calendar, one she had been looking forward to for weeks. The dress had been an extravagance. Now, she couldn't even return it because of the alterations. It was a bitter pill to swallow. She put the report down and wallowed in a blue funk until movement at the door caught her eye.

Fraser stood at the threshold. "Good afternoon, sir." He never entered the room until she invited him. Like a vampire, she thought, sourly. A little voice inside reminded her that she was the one who had forbidden him access without her express permission.

"Come in, Fraser," she said, irritated. His strict obedience to what had been an ill-considered remark on her part annoyed her. It made her feel like a martinet. But, she had never rescinded the prohibition. To do so would make her appear weak; she'd rather be the martinet. She straightened on the settee, wincing as she did so.

He moved quickly to her side. "Should you be up, sir? The doctor said – "

She waved a dismissive hand. "She said I should rest. I _am_ resting." As she wriggled to get more comfortable, she said, "Sit down, Constable. It hurts my neck to look up at you."

She watched as he picked up the Queen Anne chair from the corner and set it across the coffee table from her. He was moving rather stiffly too, she noted. And, his usually immaculate appearance was showing some wear. It wasn't just the black eye. Dark smudges of fatigue underlined the other one. And, there was the faintest beginning of a five o'clock shadow. The effect was not an unattractive one. It made him look rakish and that made her feel peevish. She looked like hell, and she knew it.

He noticed her perusal. "I apologize for my substandard appearance, sir. Detective Vecchio and I have been investigating –" His voice rasped in his dry throat.

She cut in. "Did you find the man who stole my briefcase?"

"No, sir," he said, with regret. "Not yet."

She nodded. Random acts of violence were the hardest crimes to solve as there was no link between the assailant and the victim. Her voice was cool as she continued. "We were interrupted yesterday before you could explain why were you at the airport with the consular vehicle. I didn't need a ride. I had told Turnbull I'd take a cab home." She added, pointedly, "And, you were supposed to be on duty here until six."

"It's rather a long story, sir."

She gestured to her ankle. "I'm not going anywhere, Constable."

"Yes, sir." He licked his dry lips. "Detective Vecchio had called me – " He stopped to clear his throat. "He was at the train station – " A coughing fit stopped him. "Sorry, sir," he wheezed.

She handed him her teacup, and he swallowed the cold dregs in one gulp. He started over. "Thank you, sir. Detective Vecchio had called me yesterday afternoon. A woman was found dead at Union Station and he was at the scene. She was a courier delivering a diplomatic pouch to the German Consulate – " He stopped again to clear his throat.

The sound annoyed her. She picked up the phone and buzzed Turnbull. "A fresh pot of tea," she said, brusquely. "And two cups." She heard a loud growl and looked over at the wolf in surprise, but he was lying on his side, asleep.

"Excuse me, sir," Fraser said, sheepishly, placing his hand on his stomach. It rumbled again. "I beg your pardon."

She rolled her eyes. His long story would take forever as he apologized every thirty seconds. She told Turnbull to hold on, then asked, "Have you eaten?"

Fraser blinked. "Sir?"

"Did you eat lunch?" she said, impatiently.

"Do you mean today?"

"Of course, I mean today," she said, exasperated. He shook his head and she frowned. "When was the last time you ate?"

He paused. He didn't think he should count the ten cups of coffee as food. The chili dog qualified, however marginally. "Yesterday noon."

She spoke into the phone. "Bring a sandwich for Fraser." Dief whined. "And something for the wolf." She set the phone back in its cradle, and settled herself as comfortably as she could. "Proceed, Constable."

By the time Turnbull arrived with a laden tray, Fraser had told her about Ray's phone call, the courier at the train station, and the hit and run on the Hungarian attache. She nodded, sadly. She had read the notice about Christina Havlek's death this morning, and directed Turnbull to send flowers to the Hungarian Consulate. She thought grimly that the diplomatic community was keeping the local florists hopping.

Fraser waited while Turnbull puttered at the coffee table. The tray was impressive: tea accouterments, a plate of homemade scones and jam for Meg, two thick corned beef sandwiches, coleslaw and pickle for Fraser, and a jelly donut for Dief. Fraser thanked him very kindly and the younger officer left, beaming, with the empty pot. Meg handed Fraser a steaming cup. He was relieved to smell chamomile. His hands were already a trifle shaky. One more drop of caffeine and he'd be sloshing hot tea in his lap.

He started in on his tale, but she stopped him again. "Eat first," she said, helping herself to a scone. She watched him over the rim of her cup as he set to it. Although his table manners were impeccable, he devoured everything with an appetite that put Diefenbaker to shame. When his plate was empty, he sat back and allowed himself a tiny sigh of contentment. "Thank you, sir."

She waved a hand. "Go on, Constable."

"Yes, sir. You know, of course, what happened at the airport." He told her then of his and Ray's early morning interview with the Hungarian consular staff and the belated discovery that their diplomatic pouch was missing.

She frowned. "You think the three incidents are related. That someone – that man who pushed me – killed those other women to steal their diplomatic bags. And, that he was targeting me to steal the Canadian pouch." She paused in thought. "But, he went after my briefcase. He didn't even try for the pouch."

"That's true, sir." He rubbed his eyebrow with his thumb. "It's possible that the assailant assumed your briefcase was the pouch."

"Or," she countered, "he was a petty thief who seized an opportunity. A particularly vicious thief, I'll grant you."

She replayed the scene in her head. The anonymous man who had pushed her off the balcony was a frightening figure. But, oddly enough, she had had no sense of personal animus. Or, of ongoing danger. He was after the briefcase, that had seemed certain at the time. And, she had been in the way. The assault was all the more chilling to her because of his stone-cold detachment. But, surely a person willing to kill to get a diplomatic pouch would look for the telltale seals on the bag. Otherwise, it made the attack even more pointless. And, anyone on the street could have taken Christina Havlek's briefcase after the poor woman was struck.

She shook her head. "No, Fraser. I think you're reaching for something that just isn't there."

"You _were_ pushed off that balcony, sir," he said, mildly.

"A balcony I would have been nowhere near in the first place," she pointed out. "If you hadn't summoned me to the manager's office."

He bowed his head. "I'm sorry, sir. I ... I was concerned for your safety."

"I know that, Fraser," she said. "And I do appreciate that concern." Her voice hardened. "But, I'm not a damsel in distress."

His head shot up. "I never meant to imply that you were – "

"You carried me to bed last night. Tell me you would have done that with a man," she challenged. "Turnbull, for example. Or Vecchio."

He looked at her for a long moment. "I _have_ carried an injured fellow officer when he needed me to," he said, simply. "And, Ray ... well, Ray carried _me_ over a mountain, once."

It was impossible to doubt the quiet conviction of his words. But, Meg didn't know how to take back her sexist accusation, so she let it lie like a dead chauvinist pig between them. She switched gears. "I still don't see the connection, Fraser. You're piling a coincidence on top of a coincidence. The whole thing falls apart if you look at it closely. Like a house of cards."

"Yes, sir."

She peered at him. "You don't agree."

Fraser frowned, trying to find the words to express the inexpressible. "No, sir. I'm sorry, I can't explain why."

"If you're right ... then, this wasn't some opportunistic thug." She carried that line of thought to its logical end. "If you're right ... then my attacker knew my name, my movements, maybe where I live ..." She trailed off, as understanding dawned. "That's why you wanted me to stay here last night."

"Yes, sir."

She had a hollow feeling in the pit of her stomach, despite the scones. She stared at him, struggling to set aside her anger at the assault, her disappointment at missing the ball, and her pique at the public humiliation. He held her gaze. There was no doubt in her mind that he had rushed to her side in genuine concern for her well-being. And, she had to admit, his quick actions had saved her life, or at least, spared her a world of pain. Since then, he had neither eaten nor slept while he worked to find her assailant. Though he sat upright in the chair, he couldn't quite hide the slump in his shoulders, the stiffness when he moved, or the pallor of his face. She might disagree with his reasoning, but she couldn't fault his dedication. She had to give him the benefit of the doubt, if only because he had earned it.

Besides, she was a police officer, too. And while it had been some time since she herself had led a criminal investigation, she knew Rule Number One: never assume. His unlikely theory was worth exploring, if only to rule it out. In the months since becoming his commanding officer, she had seen Fraser pull more rabbits out of more hats than a convention of magicians. His methods were unconventional in the extreme, but produced results.

He read her hesitation correctly. "Sir, as investigating officer, I have questions that I must ask."

She nodded. She was about to say that while she disagreed with his theory, she'd cooperate fully. But, she moved carelessly and rapped her ankle on the arm of the couch. She hissed in pain.

Fraser said, sympathetically, "That is, sir, if you're feeling up to it?" He froze at the acid look she shot him. Later, in retrospect, he concluded that this was the moment of his undoing.

"Up to it?! Up to – ?! "

The phone on the coffee table buzzed. She snatched up the receiver and snarled into it.

"Turnbull, I said 'no calls!'"

"Yes, sir," he quavered. "Except, if it was Ottawa. Except, it's not. Ottawa, I mean." At her growl, he hastened to add, "It's Mrs. Harrington on line – "

She pushed line 1 before he finished speaking. "Mrs. Harrington," she said, smoothly. "This is Margaret Thatcher speaking." Mrs. Daphne Morehead Harper Harrington, known to everybody who was anybody in the city as "Tuppy," was the wife of billionaire philanthropist, Walter Harrington. Together, they were the king and queen of Chicago high society and the host and hostess of the venerable Diplomacy Ball.

"Margaret, darling! I am so relieved to hear your voice! What a horrible, horrible thing to happen! Are you alright, my dear?"

"Yes, Mrs. Harrington, I –"

"I saw the front page just now. It's a very good likeness! I could tell it was you straight off. Thank goodness, you weren't killed! I said to Walter, 'Walter, that's Margaret Thatcher hanging there by one hand.' He thought I meant that dowdy Englishwoman, but I said, 'No, Walter, it's that darling Inspector with the Canadian Consulate that we met at the Trotters' reception. Thank goodness, she wasn't killed!'"

"Thank you, Mrs. Harrington, I – "

"And that delicious young man you landed on! The paper said he works at the Consulate, too! I said to Walter, 'Walter, what a delicious young man! He works for Margaret Thatcher at the Canadian Consulate!'" She paused, breathless. "Really, Margaret, where_ have_ you been hiding him?"

"Well, Mrs. Harrington, Constable Fraser – "

"Fraser! Yes, that was the name in the newspaper. Constable Fraser. He looks absolutely yummy, darling. I said to Walter, 'Walter! Look, at the yummy officer that Margaret has _under _her!" She giggled. "Under her _command_, I mean." She added, coyly. "I said to Walter, 'Walter, if that's a sample of the men up North, all I can say, is ohhhhh, Canada!'"

Meg pressed her lips together tightly, before replying, "Thank you for your call, Mrs. Harrington. I _am _sorry but I won't be able to attend the ball tomorrow evening. The doctor says I must rest. And, with my ankle so swollen, dancing is out of the question ... " She trailed off. Mrs. Harrington made sympathetic noises. Meg half-listened as she looked over at Fraser. His face was the color of his tunic. Of course. With his preternaturally acute hearing, he had heard everything.

She was seized by a wicked impulse. She interrupted her caller. "But, Mrs. Harrington, you _will_ have an opportunity to meet the man under me." He started violently, the panicked look in his eyes exactly like a deer's just before it's hit by a semi. "Oh, yes, Mrs. Harrington," she continued, with barely suppressed glee. "The Diplomacy Ball is a very important event for Chicago. And, of course, Canada _must_ be represented. I'm very pleased to report that Constable Fraser will be attending the ball in my place."

She held the telephone away from her ear as Tuppy squealed in delight, loud enough that she woke Dief. Meg thanked her for the call and hung up. She looked at Fraser with cool, professional detachment.

"Now, where were we, Constable?" she said, primly. "I believe you have questions?"


	5. Chapter 5

**CHAPTER FIVE**

Interview Room 3 – the smallest interrogation room in the 27th precinct – was a bit larger than a closet, on a par with Fraser's office at the Consulate. Right now, it was rather crowded with three chairs, two cops, one wolf and a large picnic basket. The other furniture was sparse and utilitarian – a table with scarred metal top and a whiteboard covered with photos, reports, notes, photographs, sketches – all the miscellany accumulated in any investigation. Ray and Fraser sat at the table, Dief and the basket were under it.

Ray rubbed tired eyes. It had been a long day, and it wasn't over yet. "Where's that witness statement from the airport?"

Fraser shuffled through a stack of files on the desk in front of him, and handed him the report.

There was a knock on the door. Fraser opened it to admit Elaine, carrying two styrofoam cups and a file under one arm. She set a cup in front of Ray. The aroma of coffee – or what passed for coffee in the canteen – filled the room. She handed the second cup to Fraser.

"Thank you kindly, Elaine."

Ray looked up. "She here yet?"

Elaine shook her head. She opened the file, and extracted pieces of paper as she talked. "I have the itinerary from the Hungarian Consulate, Havlek's vital stats, passport photo, and embassy report on the ex." She handed them one by one to Fraser. "Anything else I can get you guys?"

"A clue," Ray muttered.

"Sorry, all out." She shut the door quietly behind her.

Fraser perused the documents. Aged thirty-four, divorced five years, and with no children, Christina Havlek was an attractive, dark-haired woman, with dimples that showed when she smiled. From all reports, the divorce had been amicable, but just in case, the Hungarian embassy confirmed no activity on her ex-husband's passport. He hadn't left his home country in a year.

Christina, however, had been away from Chicago for nearly a month. Special assignment in Japan and Hong Kong. During that time, she had been in constant communication with her office, with no hint on her part of any trouble. She had made her return plans to ensure her attendance at the ball tomorrow. Fraser looked at the photo, again. She would have attracted admirers. But, her colleagues said she dated casually, was not in a relationship at present, and had no escort for the ball. She had planned on attending with a group from her office. Now, none of the Hungarians would be there. The Consulate was in mourning.

Dief whined plaintively. Fraser looked at his watch, surprised. "You're right. It_ is_ late," he told the wolf. "Are you hungry, Ray?"

His partner's stomach rumbled in response. Fraser took that as a yes.

They cleared the crowded desktop as Dief drooled in anticipation. Fraser unpacked the picnic basket, filled a plate for Dief and set it on the floor, then invited Ray to help himself.

Ray declared a moratorium on work while they ate. As he spread pate on a piece of baguette, he told Fraser a funny story about Frannie's latest disastrous date and what happened when the date tried to "play footsie" at a fancy restaurant.

"She didn't!" Fraser was amused, impressed, and scandalized in equal measure.

"Oh, yes, she did!" He grinned and shook his head. "Right in the middle of the Pump Room!" He said, proudly, "That's my baby sister."

Fraser took a sip of cold coffee and let the vivid image of mayhem fade from his mind. After a moment, he asked, "Ray, have you ever been to the Waldorf Astoria Hotel?" He added, helpfully, "It's on Walton Street."

"I know where it is," he said, rolling his eyes. "Spent my wedding night there," he added, around a mouthful of food. "Damn, was I hung over." He swallowed. "Why?"

Fraser told him about standing in for the Inspector at the Diplomacy Ball tomorrow evening.

Ray whistled. "Fancy digs." He looked thoughtful. "Well, I guess if she can make you wear a dead animal on your head, a tux isn't so bad." He took a bite of ripe Brie. "You can borrow mine, if you want. It's Armani."

Fraser finished chewing, before replying. "Actually, Ray, I'll be on duty and in full dress uniform. But, thanks."

Ray swallowed more bread. "You ever been to a shindig like this before?"

"I attended the formal reception last year at the Consulate."

"Where you were the doorman," Ray retorted. "What? The Inuit don't have debutante cotillions?" Fraser shook his head. "I know you didn't go to prom, because you didn't go to high school." He looked speculatively at his friend. "You ever been to a dance?"

He thought a moment. "Does a Tsimshian sunbringer count?"

"I don't know what that is."

"It's a rite of spring performed by the young men of the tribe to invoke ... " he trailed off at Ray's impatient look. "Then, no."

"_Can_ you dance, Benny?"

"There was a book on ballroom dancing –"

"– in your grandparents' library," Ray said, finishing the thought. He rubbed his chin.

"Too bad it's tomorrow night. If we had more time," he said, bobbing his head and moving his shoulders, rhythmically, "I could show you some moves. Ma's cousin ran an Arthur Murray's for a coupla years."

Fraser asked, hopefully, "So, you've attended such functions before, Ray?" Every time he thought of the formal affair, he felt a flutter in his chest. Any advice would be welcome.

"Dances, sure. But, not a high society to-do." Ray scoffed, "My blood ain't blue enough for that crowd." He took a slice of pie. "Bunch of stuffed shirts and horse-faced biddies showing off their pedigrees, if you ask me." He eyed Fraser with sympathy. "Scared?"

"Don't be ridiculous, Ray," he said, quickly. "It's a social event, not ... not a shoot-out. There's nothing to fear." His voice cracked slightly on the last word.

"Ri-ight, you keep it in perspective, buddy," he said, in encouragement. "Still, the food oughta be decent at the Waldorf." He washed down pie with the dregs of his canteen coffee. He sighed, patting his stomach. "Turnbull missed his calling."

"Yes, he did," Fraser said, in complete agreement with that assessment. He looked at the remains of their meal. They had eaten everything but the olive pits.

He had to admit that he was feeling much refreshed. At the conclusion of his interview with the Inspector, he had been unable to stifle a series of yawns. She had ordered him to the Queen's bedroom for a nap before he met up again with Ray. To his surprise, he had slept soundly for a few hours, despite being nestled in bedclothes that still bore her scent. Turnbull had shaken him awake with the news that Ray was picking him up in twenty minutes. After a shower and change of uniform, he'd felt like a new man. As he'd climbed into the Riviera, the junior officer had thrust a covered basket into his hands, muttering, "Inspector's orders." He had trotted away before an astonished Fraser could thank him. Or her.

The aroma of cinnamon had filled the Riv. Ray sniffed appreciatively. "Is that apple pie?"

Fraser lifted the gingham napkin and peeked inside. "Yes, still warm from the oven." He inventoried the contents while Dief drooled on his shoulder. Turnbull's own chicken liver pate, an assortment of cheeses, a crusty baguette, ripe olives, fresh fruit and the pie. When they arrived at the station, he'd stowed the hamper under the table with stern instructions to Dief to leave it be. Amazingly, the wolf had obeyed, standing guard over the basket with a proprietary air.

Ray wiped his mouth with a red-checked napkin and leaned back, contentedly. "That hit the spot." Dief woofed in agreement. "So, was that by way of a 'thank you' from Thatcher? What'd she say in the note?"

Tucked into the basket had been an envelope addressed to Fraser. It contained his entrance badge for the ball, delivered by the security firm while he'd slept. It also contained a single sheet of the Inspector's stationery. Fraser handed him the paper, without comment. Ray read aloud:

_Constable Fraser, _

_You will be representing our country tomorrow evening. More importantly, you will be standing in for me. I expect you at your best. Eight hours sleep and regular meals between now and then. That's an order._

_s/Margaret Thatcher, Inspector, RCMP_

"Gracious, as always," Ray said. He looked over at Welsh's office in wistful longing. "Wish I could get the Lieu to write _me_ a note like that." He looked back at the paper and continued:

_PS. Do something about that eye!_

He squinted at Fraser's face. "Frannie's probably got stuff for that."

His hand went automatically to the sore spot. "Are you suggesting I employ cosmetics?"

Ray gave him back the note. "She didn't mean an eyepatch. Too bad it's not a masquerade party. You could go as a pirate." He snapped his fingers. " Or, the Lone Ranger."

Fraser didn't answer. He was still thinking of Francesca Vecchio in close proximity, literally in his face. That was almost more daunting than the ball.

Ray felt sorry for him and changed the subject. Break over. Back to work. "So, what did Thatcher tell you?"

Fraser summarized the interview in a few sentences. The Inspector knew of Christina Havlek, had been introduced to her at the odd diplomatic function, but they were not intimates; she had never heard of Marta Gunther, the courier from the train; there had been nothing out of the ordinary in the past few weeks, no one following her, no strange phone calls, no anomalies, either in Chicago or while she was in Washington. Like Marta and Christina, her own travel plans were not a secret. There were any number of people, in Washington and Chicago, who were aware of her impending arrival at O'Hare on Thursday evening. Even Fraser had mentioned it casually to Ray last week.

"And, she knows of no one with a motive to kill her." He frowned at Ray's skeptical expression, but continued. "She remains unconvinced that the attack on her is related to the other cases."

"She's a big help," he said, dourly.

"Actually, the Inspector had some interesting thoughts on the other diplomatic pouches."

"Yeah? I told you she could get them to talk to her!"

"No, Ray," he said, in disapproval. "As I've told you it would be highly inappropriate for the Inspector to inquire." He steepled his fingers and continued. "While the contents of the Canadian pouch are confidential, I can tell you they were also rather mundane. And they had nothing to do with any other country."

"Yeah, you said that."

"The Inspector deduced that the contents of the German pouch must be similarly unremarkable."

"Deduced, huh?" Ray asked. "What is she, Sherlock Holmes?"

Fraser ignored that. "As we know, this was Marta Gunther's first assignment." He gave Ray a meaningful look. "The Inspector pointed out that the German government would be unlikely to entrust anything other than the most innocuous diplomatic papers to a novice courier. Her first assignment would be almost a dry run."

Ray nodded. "Makes sense." He frowned. "But Christina Havlek wasn't a novice. She was deputy to the chief. Like you."

"True." He paused. "The Inspector concluded that the Hungarian pouch was more likely to contain money or negotiable instruments than state secrets."

"Now, how could she possibly know that?"

"From Christina's movements." He leaned forward in his chair. "Her Consulate told us she returned from Hong Kong on Wednesday night. _With_ the diplomatic pouch. Her flight was delayed and she landed well after banking hours. She went directly from the airport to the Consulate, even though it too was closed for the evening, before going home _without _the pouch to her apartment. The next morning, she went to the Consulate briefly, then left immediately for the bank _with _the pouch, and would have arrived shortly after it opened." He paused. "If she hadn't been killed on the way."

"People go to banks for lots of reasons, Benny. Some of them personal."

"True, but they don't take sealed diplomatic pouches with them when they do. At least, not capable experienced diplomatic personnel." He contemplated the lovely woman in the photograph. "She would have taken her responsibility with the pouch very seriously, Ray."

"So ... maybe she had important papers in it that she was going to put in a safe deposit box there."

Fraser shook his head. "No consulate would trust a safe deposit box on foreign soil for sensitive official documents, Ray," he said, with authority. "The box could be frozen or seized with an American court order. Whereas a safe at the consulate would be inviolate, since under international law, that is considered Hungarian soil, and secure from any search or seizure by the host country."

Ray nodded, slowly. "O-kay," he drawled. "So ... _I _deduce that you guys got a safe, too. Where do you hide it?" He narrowed his eyes in thought, then snapped his fingers. "Ooohh, I know! Behind that ugly painting in the library, right?"

"If I told you, Ray, I'd have to kill you." Fraser's face and voice were devoid of expression.

Ray hesitated, then decided to take it as a joke. "Very funny, Benny." He scowled. "Well, that's a nice set of deductions. But, doesn't that undermine our theory of relativity? If the motive for the hit and run was money, what does that mean for the others?"

He ticked off points on his fingers. "The Hungarian gets run over in broad daylight on a busy street with a stolen car that we find abandoned a block away. The day before, the German is stabbed to death and left in a dumpster at the train station. Never been in Chicago before. Hell, she'd only been in the country four days. There's no connection between the Hungarian and the German; and now, you tell me there's none between either of them and the Canadian. And if Sherlock Thatcher's deductions are right, there's nothing in common between the diplomatic bags." He gestured at the whiteboard over his shoulder. "Every time we think we find something connecting two of them, the third blows us out of the water. So, I repeat, where does that leave us?"

Fraser was unfazed. "At the beginning of an investigation." He leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers. "'It is a capital mistake to theorize before one has data. One begins to twist facts to suit theories, instead of theories to fit facts.'"

Ray heard the quotation marks in his voice. He said, suspiciously, "You get that out of a book?"

Fraser nodded. "Sherlock Holmes said it in the _Adventure of the Blue Carbuncle_. It seemed apropos."

"What's a carbuncle?"

"A cluster of boils that form a connected area of infection under the skin."

Ray made a face. "They turn blue?"

"Well, no. In the story, the 'blue carbuncle' referred to a large blue diamond that is forcefed to a Christmas goose and later discovered in its digestive – "

Ray held up a hand, disgusted. "C'mon, Benny. I just ate."

There was a knock on the door and Elaine poked her head in.

"She's here," she said, quietly.

"OK," Ray said. "Thanks." She closed the door. "It's showtime," he said, soberly. He stood and grabbed his suit jacket from the back of his chair.

Fraser shouldered into his tunic. As he fastened his Sam Browne, he leaned under the table. "Stay," he told Dief.

Dief, his belly full, woofed affirmatively. He'd never been to the mysterious basement rooms, but he could smell them from the stairwell. He was quite content right where he was, thank you very kindly.


	6. Chapter 6

**CHAPTER SIX**

They trooped down the two flights to the morgue. Recent departmental regulations had decentralized the massive medical examiner's office and the 27th was one of several precincts which now housed a coroner's lab _in situ_. The renovations to the basement level had taken months and were completed a few weeks ago. Fraser had not yet been in the new lab. Or, for that matter, the former facilities uptown. Since his partnership with Ray was largely informal, he had been denied access as non-official personnel. The attack on the Inspector, however, had bumped up his status.

As they walked, Ray said, "About Mort, Benny. He's the best medical examiner in the city. But, he can be a little ... " he trailed off, struggling for the right word, then shrugged. "Weird."

"Don't people say that about me?" Fraser asked, curious. He'd been called worse. In several languages.

"Nah," Ray replied, with a straight face. "Offbeat, maybe." He put his hands on the heavy double doors. Then, he looked over his shoulder. "No licking in there."

"I'll endeavor to restrain myself."

Ray pushed the doors open, stepped into an antechamber, then through another set of doors into the lab itself. Fraser followed in his wake. Then, he froze in his tracks just inside the entrance.

Bright white light reflected off gleaming stainless steel surfaces. It was blinding after the gloom of the hall. But, it was the smell that robbed Fraser of his mobility. He stood, rooted to the floor. It was a smell of chemical cleaners and preservatives overlaying a sweet, cloying scent. It triggered a sense-memory so intense, it actually disoriented him. For a few seconds, he was not sure where he was as the smell catapulted him back in time. To the last time he had been in a coroner's lab.

Ray, unaffected by the lights or smell, didn't notice his distress. He walked to the table in the center of the room and picked up a corner of the gray sheet. "Benny, gimme a hand with this." he called over his shoulder.

Fraser shook himself out of his quasi-fugue. He must be more fatigued than he realized. He scrambled to pull himself together as he hurried to join Ray on the opposite side of the table. Together, they lifted the sheet and folded it back. Fraser's heart was pounding and he was sweating, even though the room was cold. What in the world was wrong with him? He had seen his share of bodies, often in a condition that went well beyond gruesome. As he passed a trembling hand over his eyes, he realized, to his dismay, that he was afraid. Afraid of what? The answer, when it came, shocked him.

He was afraid he'd see the corpse of his father lying on the steel table.

Of course, he wasn't. A young woman stared up at the overhead lights. But, his momentary lapse rattled Fraser. As he always did in response to strong emotion, he retreated into minutiae. He automatically catalogued the details: her delicate features and curly hair, the fact that she was fully clothed; her hands, encased in clear plastic evidence bags, resting at her side; the knife protruding from her chest. He bent over it, peering at the handle.

He said, in a hearty voice, overly loud in the gleaming room, "Leatherman's Sportsman hunting knife, Ray. Model number 2956A in the catalogue, if I'm not mistaken. On sale, last week at Marshall Fields for – "

"Benny!" Ray's sharp voice cut through his recitation. "For chrissake! Give her a minute!"

Fraser straightened to find his friend glaring at him. He took an uncertain step back from the table.

Ray looked down at the girl. He had come a long way since he had thrown up at his first crime scene and then passed out at the postmortem. In the years since those rookie days, he had become hardened to violent death. But, the young ones still twisted him up inside. Marta Gunther was twenty-three years old, but looked younger. She had brown hair, a sweet, heart-shaped face, a smattering of freckles on her nose, and large blue eyes. Those eyes stared up at the light, fixed and unseeing.

Rage boiled inside him. He wanted to rip apart the bastard who did this with his bare hands. Barring that, he wanted to punch Fraser in the nose. He clenched his fists, but kept them at his side. He knew it wasn't really Benny he was mad at. He was just a handy target. And, as much as his friend's habitual detachment pissed Ray off (like now), there were times he envied it (like now). He took a page from Benny's book and drew a long breath. He let it out slowly, and forced his hands to relax. He drew another breath, banking the fire in his belly by force of will, so it burned low and slow and steady. The red haze dissipated and his mind cleared.

Fraser watched the play of emotions – anger, pity, sorrow – that flitted across Ray's face. His friend felt everything. Passionately. And, he never hid his feelings. Fraser often chided him for it, urging him to restraint and self control. But, now, looking into the blank blue eyes of Marta Gunther, he wondered if Ray's feelings weren't the only sane response to such a grievous wrong. Someone had taken this girl's life, then thrown her in a dumpster, discarded like a piece of trash.

Just as someone had killed his father and left him lying in the snow.

He drew a sharp breath. The comparisons were there, whether he wanted to see them or not. Between the death of his father and Marta Gunther, between himself and Ray. Had he ever allowed himself to feel for his father even a fraction of what Ray felt for this young girl? He found that thought very painful indeed and promptly retreated from it, finding refuge in silently reciting Hamlet's soliloquies in order. It wasn't much of a refuge, he realized belatedly, as he stalled on the third. The prince's lament mirrored his own.

_What's he to Hecuba? Or Hecuba to him, _

_that he should weep for her? What would he do, _

_had he the motive and the cue for passion that I have?_

Shame flooded him. He was doing it again. Retreating into intellectual analysis to avoid experiencing his own feelings. Because, he realized with sudden insight, those feelings were simply ... unbearable.

He took a tentative step and looked down at the dead face. Marta Gunther wasn't his father. Neither was she a metaphor. She was a human being, unique and individual, with her own strengths and flaws, dreams and desires. What had happened to her was an abomination.

He reached out and gently closed her eyes. He looked up to find Ray watching him.

"Benny, we gotta get this son of a bitch."

"We will, Ray," he vowed, with equal, if restrained, fervor.

They jumped as music blared all around them, echoing off the hard gleaming surfaces of the lab. Opera at maximum volume. A man in a white coat pushed the door open with his backside, singing at the top of his voice along with the music. He beamed as he spotted his visitors. He was a robust man in his sixties, with flyaway white hair and twinkling blue eyes in a long, lined face. He held a steel bowl in which a kidney nestled.

He sang out, "Wilkommen, bienvenue, welcome!"

"Mort! Turn off the music!" Ray shouted.

"Eh? What did you say?"

"I said, turn off the music!"

He cupped his ear with one gore-crusted hand. "Sorry, didn't catch that!"

"I SAID, TURN OFF THE MUSIC!" The song ended and his words echoed in the sudden silence.

"No need to shout, Ray." Mort was reproachful. "I'm old, not deaf." He flicked a switch and the music clicked off. He had an unusual accent. Polish, Fraser thought, with a trace of German? The coroner was looking at him with interest.

"Mort, Benny. Benny, Mort," Ray said.

Mort set the kidney on a counter and thrust out a hand. At Fraser's hesitation, he apologized, stripped off his latex gloves, and tried again.

"The famous Mountie," he said, with delight. "I saw your picture in the newspaper." He added, "Tell me, can you sing?"

Ray interrupted before they launched into a duet of _Indian Love Call_. "Thanks for doing this so late, Mort."

"Sure, Ray." He washed and dried his hands and donned fresh gloves. He reached overhead and pulled the light closer to the table. Ray and Fraser took gloves from the wall dispenser and put them on.

Mort bent over the table and and donned the glasses hanging from a cord around his neck. "She was German?"

"Yeah," Ray said. "Her embassy's gonna fax you dental records for a positive ID."

"A diplomatic courier, I understand."

"Temporarily," Fraser said. At Mort's questioning look, he explained. "She was a graduate student, taking a gap year before resuming her studies next fall. The courier job paid her travel expenses, plus a small income. Her father said she ..." He stopped abruptly. "Never mind."

"She told her father life was too short and she wanted to see the world before she died," Ray finished, bitterly. The man had broken down when he repeated his daughter's lighthearted words. Ray had ended the overseas call, then. To continue would have been too cruel. The family knew nothing that shed light on their daughter's murder.

After a moment, Mort asked, "What was she studying?"

"Forensic science," Fraser said.

Mort straightened in surprise, then leaned over her. "You would have found it interesting," he whispered in her ear. Then, he said, briskly, "OK, let's begin." He activated the recording system, announced the date and time, and the number on the tag affixed to Marta Gunther's wrist in a professional, competent manner.

Ray and Fraser watched as Mort methodically bagged and tagged the evidence: the mean-looking knife, her clothes and shoes, the scrapings from under her nails. The nail on the middle finger of her right hand was broken off, and there was bloody tissue crusted under what remained. When he was finished, and with his permission, Fraser stepped up.

"Remember, Benny. No licking," Ray said, sternly.

Mort barked a laugh, then stopped as he saw that Ray was serious. He gave Fraser a suspicious look.

He spoke hastily, before the coroner concluded he was some kind of deviant. "In the Far North, field forensics is often the only analysis possible."

"Ah, of course," Mort said, interested. "Perhaps, we could discuss your methods. Over lunch, sometime?"

"I'd do it on an empty stomach, if I were you, doc," Ray muttered.

Fraser sniffed her face, her hair, her hands, concentrating on the tips of each finger. He pointed out a sticky residue on the index and middle fingers of her right hand. Mort took a sample of the substance.

"What is it?" Ray asked Fraser.

"Spirit gum, I think," he said. As Ray looked a question, he explained, "It's often used by actors to affix prosthetic appliances or hair to their skin."

"You mean, like a fake beard and mustache?"

"Yes."

"I find it on dancers, too," Mort offered informatively, as he wrote on the sample container.

"Ballet?" Fraser asked, envisioning feathers and _Swan Lake_.

"Exotic." Mort set the sample in a tray and turned back to the body.

Fraser looked a question at Ray. He cupped his hands at his chest and mouthed, "Pasties." He watched Fraser's ears pink, right on cue.

Mort stretched, easing the muscles in his back. "Cause of death was a stab wound to the chest, which cut the aorta. Death would have come quickly from blood loss. Little escaped the body, due to the knife remaining in the wound. Five minutes at most. She was found in a trash can?"

"A dumpster, yeah."

Mort looked at Ray over the rims of his half-glasses. "It bothers you that she was thrown away with the garbage?"

Ray shrugged, not meeting his eyes.

"Yes," Fraser said.

"Me, too." Mort sighed. "Even, after all these years." He shook his head. "With all the contamination from the dumpster, you can forget about fiber or hair specimens."

"Yeah, I figured," Ray said. "What about time of death?"

"Forty eight hours ago, give or take."

"Could it have been Wednesday afternoon?" At Mort's nod, he said, "Her train arrived at 2:20. She wasn't found until the next day when a maintenance guy went to empty the dumpster."

"It was very cold Wednesday night," Mort said. "I'll have a more precise time after we run the tests."

It was luck that the maintenance worker had spotted her at all, Ray knew. She could have been lost in a landfill forever, with no one knowing what had ever become of her. In that bustling station, she had been practically invisible. Only the conductor on the Capitol Limited remembered Marta. He had been impressed by how seriously the young woman guarded the briefcase with the diplomatic stickers. He confirmed she had left the train with it. But, the passenger debarkation platform was far removed from the loading dock where the dumpster was situated.

When he interviewed the dock foreman, Ray had learned a new maxim. Freight trains never carried passengers, but passenger trains carried freight. There were limits as to the size and weight and the freight had to fit on a small truck or van, which could be pulled up to the dock. But the true freight trains had a separate loading and unloading area, far from that dumpster, that could accommodate the big rigs.

Sometimes, the passenger freight traveled with a corresponding passenger on the same train. But more often, it was shipped independently. Far as anybody knew, Marta had no reason to be in the dock area. Her embassy confirmed no shipment by them. Ray had requested a manifest for the passenger freight unloaded that day, but Amtrak's bureaucracy was taking its good ole time to process it. He'd be lucky to get it at all, and doubted it would be any help anyway. Ray's best guess was that the killer had lured Marta to the area, taking advantage of an interval between trains.

Mort was ready to begin the dental examination, then the autopsy. Ray and Fraser took their leave. The report would be sufficient for them. And, that final, necessary violation of Marta Gunther did not need an audience. They took one last look at her still face before heading to the door. Mort bent to his task.

"Wait a minute, boys," he called.

They turned back. Mort held up a pair of forceps. Something glittered under the overhead light. He placed it in a small evidence bag and handed it to Ray.

Ray held it up to his face. "A cufflink." He squinted at it. "What the hell is a cufflink doing in her mouth?" His tone grew angry. "Did _he_ put it there? Some kind of sick signature move?"

Fraser said, slowly. "She was a forensics student."

"Yeah?"

"She would know a wound like this was fatal; that she had only a minute or two of consciousness left." He paused. "And, she knew what would happen once ... once, her hand relaxed."

Ray stared at him. "You mean ...?"

"Oh, my brave, smart, wonderful girl!" Mort exclaimed. "You put this in your mouth for me!"

Fraser took the bag from Ray, and peered at it. It was a quality piece, solid silver, with a design. He turned it to the light. "Ray!" He fumbled in his breast pocket for the envelope from the picnic basket and extracted the security badge. "Look!"

Ray looked back and forth between the design on the badge and the tinier version on the cufflink. They were identical. Two hands clasped in friendship, superimposed over a globe. The emblem of the annual Chicago Diplomacy Ball.


	7. Chapter 7

**CHAPTER SEVEN**

Meg fumbled on the coffee table for her glasses. She put them on, then tilted her head back against the settee, as she ran her eyes up and down the man in front of her. Her deputy liaison officer stood stiffly at attention, in full dress uniform, Stetson under one arm. After a long moment, she nodded. "Satisfactory, Constable."

"Thank you, sir, " Fraser said, standing at ease. "I was uncertain about the cosmetics."

"It looks good," she said, squinting at his left eye. "I really can't see anything."

Ray stepped into her office, fussing with the silk kerchief in his breast pocket. Turnbull was on his heels, brushing his shoulders with a small valet's whisk.

"My sister did it," he said, proudly.

It was Saturday evening. The cuff link Mort had found last night had opened a new line of investigation. It had been far too late following the autopsy to start inquiries, so Ray and Fraser had gone to their respective homes to sleep. Fraser had followed the Inspector's orders to the best of his ability. But, he'd had a restless night.

He lay awake for a long time, pondering his lapse in the coroner's lab. He had learned at a very young age how to summon a memory and immerse himself in it. For a long time after his mother's death, he would lie in bed at his grandparents' house and conjure her – face, voice, smell, touch – until her presence enveloped him. Comforted, he would finally fall asleep.

Over the years, he had honed this ability to a razor's edge. It had proved useful as an investigative tool when he became a law enforcement officer. For example, in the case of the kidnaping of a restauranteur's son in Chinatown last year. But always before, it had been a conscious exercise, something _he_ controlled. Ray called it "doing the Zen thing," though it had nothing to do with that Asian philosophy. But this time, the sense-memory had slammed into him unbidden, out of the blue. That loss of control, as much as the unsettling emotions it stirred, profoundly disturbed him.

But, all his tossing and turning was for naught. In the end, he concluded that his well-developed sense of smell and over-active imagination had simply betrayed him. He finally fell asleep, but kept jolting awake every few hours with a feeling that his father was standing over the bed, trying to tell him something. Or, maybe, he had something he wanted to tell his father. Something he should have told him long ago.

But, if Bob Fraser was there, Fraser couldn't see or hear him. Not for the first time, he wondered if the image of his father – the ghost – that had begun appearing last Christmas was also a mere conjuring of the mind, like the childhood summoning of his mother's memory, albeit a particularly solid manifestation of his wishful thinking. Except, that his father usually showed up at the most inconvenient of times, and failed to come when wanted. Like a poorly trained puppy, he thought, before dropping off into uneasy slumber again.

While he may not have slept the full eight hours that the Inspector demanded, he had remained in bed for the requisite time, mulling over the new clue and what to do with it. By the time he had met up with Ray for breakfast, he had pinned down the origins of the cufflink with an early visit to the city room of the Chicago Sun-Times. Basil Thune, editor of the society column, had been happy to open his files to the Mountie hero attending the ball in the place of the wounded commander he had saved. In return for an exclusive interview after the event.

Mr. Thune explained that every guest at the annual Diplomacy Ball received a commemorative gift. While the globe and handshake emblem was _de rigeur_, the gift itself varied. So far, it had not been repeated in the dozen years of the ball's existence. Last year's token had been cufflinks for the men and earrings for the women. The year before that, money clips and compacts, respectively, and so on, back to the first year's fountain pen and brooch. After swearing Fraser to secrecy, he had revealed that this year's gifts would be tie clasps and scarf clips. The gifts were of superior quality and workmanship, and were considered something of a status symbol among the social set.

Thus, their working assumption was that the killer had been an attendee at last year's ball. Since, according to Mr. Thune, the guest list remained fairly stable, it was possible that their quarry would be attending this year. On the pretext that Fraser wanted to familiarize himself with the names and affiliations of the guests, Mr. Thune had given him tonight's roster. A quick perusal showed Christina Havlek and Margaret Thatcher were on the list. Marta Gunther was not. That was not surprising, as she was a courier in transit not permanently assigned to Chicago. Ray planned to get last year's information from the ball's organizers, but they had decided to wait until the event was over. Alerting anyone to their line of investigation ahead of time might spoil the plan.

Such as it was.

They had formed the tentative scheme over breakfast at the Patrician Grill before reporting the new development to the Inspector. Despite the early hour, she was dressed and in her office when they had arrived. She was still staying in the Queen's bedroom, with Dief remaining on site overnight as bodyguard. She had heard their plan, played devil's advocate, and ultimately agreed to its implementation.

Of course, there were many ways that the killer could have obtained the cufflink, without being one of last year's guests. And, even if the murderer was a former guest, there was no guarantee that he'd be in attendance this year. But, as Fraser had pointed out, he would be attending the ball in her place, anyway. Putting Ray on the guest list meant an extra pair of professional eyes in the crowd of four hundred, while adding an under-the-radar police presence to the prestigious affair. It was a hasty plan and one unlikely to succeed. But, if it failed, according to Ray, it was a case of "no harm, no foul." He would have only given up an ordinary Saturday night for an evening of champagne, hors d'oeuvres and dancing at the Waldorf Astoria. Free. He didn't even have to rent the tux.

So, an hour ago, Fraser had sat on a wooden chair in the Vecchio kitchen, a large towel draped over his dress uniform. As Mrs. Vecchio puttered at the stove, Frannie had laid out her equipment on the kitchen table. It was a mysterious array of bottles, vials, creams, powders, brushes and sponges. She was mixing something in one of her mother's small ramekins, holding the little dish up to Fraser's face from time to time for comparison. Meanwhile, Ray and Fraser discussed the non-confidential aspects of the case. A pot of tomato sauce simmered on the range, filling the kitchen with a delicious aroma.

"Tall, clean-shaven, well-built white male, in his mid-twenties to mid-fifties, with a scratch on his face," Ray mused. "Hmmmm." He rubbed his chin. "Where have I seen someone that matched that description?"

Fraser's hand automatically went to his left eye.

"By the time I'm done with you, nobody's gonna see that cut or the black eye," Frannie assured him. "But, the bad guy could cover it up, too, you know," she pointed out. "You'd have to get pretty close to tell." She sat up, eagerly. "Maybe I should go with you. I can get a lot closer to a man than either of you can."

"No!" Ray and Fraser chorused.

"Thank you, kindly, Francesca," Fraser added. "But, this man has killed one woman, possibly two, and may have attempted to kill a third. It's too dangerous."

"Ri-ight," Ray added, quickly. "Too dangerous." The last thing he needed tonight was Frannie underfoot, cramping his style.

"But, how are you going to spot one guy in a crowd that big?"

"Not everyone there will be white, Francesca," Fraser pointed out. "And, only half the guests will be men," he added. "We can ignore the women."

"Speak for yourself," Ray muttered.

"You're so right, Benton," she said, nodding solemnly. "Ignore the women."

"Also, the perpetrator at the airport saw me, however briefly," Fraser continued. "Thanks to the news media, my name and position as a Canadian law enforcement officer have been well publicized. It's possible that my presence at the ball could provoke a reaction."

It was Ray's personal opinion that his presence was going to provoke one hell of a reaction. Just not from the men. That damn red suit. It drew women like moths to a flame.

Mrs. Vecchio set down her wooden spoon. "Raimundo, please give me a hand upstairs. I want to get something from the shelf in my closet."

"Sure, Ma," he said.

"_Caro_, keep an eye on the sauce, please."

"I will, Ma," Frannie said, as they left the kitchen.

She dabbed a finger in the mixture in the ramekin and spread it on the back of Fraser's hand. Holding his hand to the light, she turned it this way and that. "That might do," she said, critically. She wiped it away with a moist towelette, then pulled her chair around to face him. "Let's see how it looks on your face." She dabbed a streak under his good eye, and studied it. "You really have beautiful skin, Benton," she murmured. "Any girl would kill for it." Before he could reply, she snapped, "Stop that!"

"Stop what?" he blurted. He hadn't moved a muscle.

"Turning red. I can't tell if this matches if you keep changing colors on me," she complained. "God! Can't you take a compliment without blushing?"

"No."

"Oh."

"If you could refrain from ... uh ... complimenting me, I think that would be best."

"OK," she conceded. "I'll just stir the sauce while you ... do ... whatever."

"Thank you," he said. He took a deep breath, centered himself, and thought of the Yukon.

When she sat down again, his complexion had returned to normal. She pulled her chair closer, fitting herself between his legs. She squinted at his face. "OK, I think that's a match." She wiped the streak of foundation from his cheek with a towelette, then blew on it to dry. Fraser concentrated on the breathing techniques and mantra that he used for meditation and managed to maintain his skin tone to her specification.

"Close your eyes," she ordered.

He closed the blackened eye.

"Both of them, Benton," she said, impatiently. "Otherwise, your face scrunches up." She added, "I promise I won't bite."

"Sorry," Fraser murmured and obeyed.

He heard her putter at the table, clinking bottles and vials together. "First, we start with concealer," she said, as she dotted the cut on his forehead and under and over the left eye with her finger. She gently rubbed the substance in. "There!" He heard her set down the container. "Next, the foundation." She repeated the dotting motion over the same area, then smoothed her concoction on his skin with delicate motions. Fraser found himself relaxing, despite himself. Her touch was very soothing.

She talked as she worked. "A little powder to set it. Then, another layer of foundation, I think," she said, as she patted and dabbed. "But, not too much. You don't want to look 'made-up.' That's the secret, you know. Makeup should enhance a girl's natural features, without taking it over the top." He started to agree with her, but she shushed him. "No, don't talk. It moves your face." He heard her set the ramekin down on the table. "A little shadowing under here ..." She continued to talk as she gently applied the cosmetics.

"Not everyone can pull off that shade of red, you know. But with your coloring, you can wear anything," she mused. "I imagine most of the men at the ball will be in black, like Ray. You're gonna really stand out." His breath hitched, but she didn't notice. "Well, you always stand out, Benton. But, tonight, you'll be the belle of the ball. Or, is that beau?" He obeyed her prior admonition and didn't answer, but she saw the pulse in his neck beating erratically. Her mouth snapped shut, realizing for the first time how truly apprehensive he was.

She was silent for a moment, then continued in a soft voice, explaining the products she was using, and why. As she went on, his breathing evened out, his hammering pulse slowed. "A little more powder. And, a little more foundation." She assessed. "Now, I have to feather this carefully so you can't see the seams." She lifted his chin with one hand, while working with the other. "Purse your lips a little. Yes, just like that. Don't move." She continued to stroke his face, leaning in close.

Her lips on his were warm and soft. He didn't respond, but neither did he pull away. The kiss was tender, sweet. And brief.

"May I open my eyes, now?"

"Yes," she whispered.

Their eyes met. The open, kind expression in his surprised Frannie. She had expected the usual shy, stammering awkwardness that she found so endearing. The lack of it threw her. She turned away, fumbling at the table. "Here," she said, handing him a mirror.

He took it, but kept it on his lap. She brushed her hair away from her flushed face, still not meeting his eyes, and fussed with bottles and jars. He put a finger under her chin and turned her face toward him until she raised her brown eyes to his blue.

"Thank you kindly, Francesca," he said, softly. "I think I needed that tonight." His lips quirked. "That was for luck?"

"For luck," she said, nodding.

He dropped his hand and brought the mirror to his face as Ray came bounding back in the room. He was holding a piece of white silk in his hands.

"Frannie, gimme a hand with this." He glanced at Fraser, then did a double-take. "Wow! You look great." He stepped closer, peering at his right eye. "I can't see anything at all."

"It's the other eye, Ray," he said, amused.

Frannie busied herself with folding the fabric into a square, then tucked it into the breast pocket of the tux. "Isn't this Pop's?"

"Yeah, Ma gave it to me." He was peering over her shoulder at Fraser as he stood, removed the towel and folded it neatly over the back of the chair. "Damn, Frannie. He looks great."

She patted his breast pocket. "I'm only responsible for the eye, Ray. The rest is all Benton." She smiled shyly at the Mountie, before straightening Ray's tie. "You both look very handsome."

Fraser thanked her again and, after final inspection by the entire Vecchio clan, they were in the Riviera heading to the Consulate. Ray turned on the radio. Steppenwolf's _Born to be Wild _was playing. He cranked up the volume, grinning at Fraser. "Cheer up, Benny. We're going to a party. And, we look damn good!" he shouted over the music, then gunned it to make the light. Fraser refrained from his usual lecture on the rules of the road, returning the grin with a sickly one of his own.

Now, from the settee in her office, Meg peered up at Fraser's face. "It's a very professional job, Detective." She realized she was still wearing the glasses, and snatched them off.

Fraser noted with approval that the Inspector appeared much better today, looking rested and refreshed and moving less stiffly. Her foot was still grossly swollen and propped up on pillows, but dressed casually in black leggings and cranberry mohair sweater, she made a very attractive picture. Red suits her, he thought, but he kept that to himself.

"Turnbull, stop fussing," she snapped, as he now advanced on Fraser with the whisk. She reached for an envelope on the coffee table and handed it to Ray. "This will get you into the ball."

Ray removed the security badge. His image, superimposed over the logo of globe and clasped hands, smiled back at him. "Any problem getting this at the last minute?"

"No, Detective." With a straight face, she added, "I merely explained that you were Fraser's date." At their startled looks, her lips quirked. "Just joking"

Turnbull tittered and Ray shot him a dirty look.

Meg gestured at the badge in Ray's hand. "I had to give the security firm your real name and citizenship. But you're listed as a guest of the Canadian Consulate. You're posing as a major maple syrup importer for the Midwestern United States." It was the best identity that they could come up with on short notice. Ray figured he could fake his way with the maple syrup details if anyone probed. After hanging out with Fraser, he had absorbed more information about the Canadian commodity than he ever cared to know. But, he needed a cover. No one would talk to him if he went to the party as a cop.

"Sweet," he said, with a twinkle.

Turnbull giggled.

"Get the car, Turnbull," Meg ordered.

"You look dandy, sirs!" he gushed. "Have a wonderful time!" Then, he turned on his heel and left the room.

Meg had to agree with Turnbull's assessment. Tall, straight, impossibly handsome Fraser was all spit-and-polish, the epitome of manly virtue in red serge. Vecchio, cool and sophisticated in his Armani tux, gave off an entirely different vibe. One that implied a little vice was good for the soul, and fun to boot. She'd had her doubts about his presence at the ball when Fraser had proposed it. Certainly, she'd seen enough of Vecchio's rough edges to give her pause. But, looking at him now, she was beginning to think it would be alright.

Her scrutiny made Ray self-conscious. He fussed unnecessarily with his tie and kerchief. He knew Thatcher was worried about the plan and his role in it. To say they had never gotten along was an understatement. They were like oil and water – no, more like gasoline and a match. But, despite her misgivings, she had added him to the guest list. As she continued to stare at him, he winked, intending it as a friendly, reassuring gesture.

But, Meg saw it as a smirk. She stiffened. "All frivolity aside, Detective, this is a very important event with very important people. Not the type of people that you're used to."

He looked offended. Belatedly, she realized how that had sounded. She soldiered on. "I mean, you must conduct yourself with the utmost decorum. Remember, your actions will reflect on all of Canada."

"I'll try not to embarrass the whole country, lady."

"I only meant – "

"It's just that I've never gone that long without picking my nose or scratching my butt."

"Ray," Fraser began. "I think the Inspector means – "

"I know what she means, Benny," he retorted. "Just because I don't have a stick up my– "

"Detective!" she said, sharply, before this got out of control. She really hadn't meant to insult him. That little voice inside snapped,_ Then, tell him so! _She took a deep breath and said, stiffly. "That was a poor choice of words on my part. I ... uh ... apologize. " The last word was barely audible.

Ray goggled at her, then exchanged a disbelieving glance with Fraser.

Their incredulity irritated her, but she swallowed it. "What I meant to say was ... these are not the usual caliber of people you encounter_ in the performance of your duty_."

Her qualification mollified Ray. "I know that."

"Good." She continued, "We don't know that the murderer will be present tonight, but regardless, you cannot treat the guests at the ball as 'the usual suspects.' You must be subtle."

"Moi?" Ray said, his eyes wide and innocent. His cell phone rang. "Subtle is my middle name." He excused himself to the hall to take Welsh's call.

Meg watched him go, with narrowed eyes.

"Actually, it's 'Eduardo,'" Fraser confided.

She sighed, deeply. "I should be the one going with you." Disappointment flooded her and her eyes went to the dress hanging from the bookcase.

"Perhaps next year, sir," he said, kindly.

Her eyes snapped back to him. He realized that he had unintentionally invited himself to accompany her to next year's high profile event, and backpedaled. "I mean, _you_ could go. Next year. Alone. Unless, of course, you'd rather not. Go alone. Because you could go with ... someone. Someone else, I mean. A stranger, perhaps." He dug himself in deeper. "Not that you're in the habit of picking up strangers on the street. I mean, you're not a – a date, I meant, a ... uh ... date ... – or perhaps, you'd prefer not to go a 'tall." He stuck a finger under his suddenly tight collar and pulled it away from his throat. "Unless – "

She took pity on him and put an end to his verbal contortions. "Unless Vecchio gets us struck off for life," she said, drily. "He will behave himself?"

"Yes, sir."

"I hope you're right." She lowered her voice. "A private word, Constable, while we have a moment."

"Yes, sir."

"Tonight is more than a social event_ cum_ investigation."

"Sir?"

"It's also an opportunity." At his blank stare, she said, "A personal opportunity."

He drew himself up to full attention. "I will endeavor to represent our country– "

She interrupted him, waving a dismissive hand. "This is your first exposure to the movers and shakers of this city, both in and out of the diplomatic community." She settled herself more comfortably and adopted a tone of benevolence. "From time to time, Fraser, you will be called upon to stand in for me. While I was in Washington, I hope you saw that there is more to my job than talking on the phone or reviewing reports."

Fraser, who had spent the entire week in her office doing just that, said, diplomatically, "Of course, sir."

But, she was on a roll. "Administration, public relations, diplomacy ... One might say that as the Chief Consular official, I am Canada personified." She added, modestly, "In Chicago, that is."

"Yes, sir."

"But, in my absence, _you_ are."

"I understand, sir."

"You're not getting any younger, Fraser."

Belatedly realizing she expected a response to what he had taken as a rhetorical statement, he replied, "No, sir. I'm not."

"It's time to look to your future."

"My future?"

"Your career. You can't just drift along, Fraser, and hope to advance. You have to make things happen." She raised her fists and shook them at him. "Take the bull by the horns."

"I ... uh ... I'm not sure if I know how to do that, sir." He shifted his feet. "I mean, I have wrestled the occasional bear – "

She sighed. She should have had this conversation long before now. Her deputy was utterly clueless when it came to career advancement and workplace politics. She had tossed him into this particular lion's den on a whim, but it was a genuine opportunity. Part of her duty as a commander was to groom her junior officers. She had neglected this responsibility when it came to Fraser, initially preferring to fire him or force him to resign. But, his separation from the Service was no longer her goal. It was difficult to pin down when that had changed. But, the important thing was that it had. It was time she acknowledged it.

She looked up at his earnest face and imparted what wisdom she could. "Perhaps, we should start small and build."

"Yes, sir," he said.

Fraser had given no thought to his future career other than to serve out his indefinite term of exile in Chicago as best he could before, hopefully, returning to a posting in the far North. Did she think he harbored serious ambitions for a career in diplomacy, or worse, the bureaucracy of the Service? He suppressed a shudder at the thought. Still, the fact that she was concerned about his future warmed him. That implied she thought he _had_ a future. The thaw that had begun when he recovered her heirloom brooch seemed to be continuing.

She was still thinking aloud. "You should play to your strengths, Fraser."

"Yes, sir." He frowned, not sure how his tracking skills applied to a formal dance.

"First, see and be seen." She eyed him with approval. "You make a very good appearance, Constable," she said, formally.

He colored slightly. "Thank you, sir."

"Never underestimate the power of appearance," she lectured. "Looking good and being charming has taken a lot of people a long way in life. Sometimes, to the very top."

"Yes, sir."

She detected the faintest note of disapproval in his tone. "It's not fair, Fraser, but it's often true," she said, primly.

"No, sir. I mean, yes, sir."

"As for tonight, I want you to extend yourself." She said, sternly, "Don't disappear into the background. Mingle. Work the room."

"Y–yes, sir."

She frowned. "And, none of those long-winded Inuit stories of yours. Stick to small talk."

"Small talk, sir?"

"You know, the weather, the view, the orchestra, the food. For God's sake, stay away from money, religion or politics!"

"Yes, sir," Fraser said, belatedly fumbling for his notebook. He should have been writing this down from the beginning. "Would you repeat that, sir?"

She ticked off points on her fingers. "Look good, be charming, stick to small talk. That's it, for now. Clear?"

He scribbled frantically. "Clear, sir."

"Oh," she said, "and dance, of course." She frowned as a disagreeable thought struck her. "You _do _know how to dance?"

He looked up from the notebook. "Sir?"

"It's a simple question, Fraser. Do you know how to dance?"

"I'm assuming, sir, you mean the form of dancing that will most likely take place at the ball tonight –"

She rolled her eyes. "What other kind of dancing could I possibly mean?"

"Modern, jazz, tribal, belly – "

She cut him off. "I meant the kind of dancing that will take place at the ball tonight."

"I have studied that kind of dancing, sir."

"Good," she said, relieved. On second thought, she ventured, "Just to be clear, Fraser, what type of dancing do you expect to occur tonight?"

"The waltz, tango, foxtrot, samba, polka, cha-cha, rumba, Charleston ..."

She was nodding in approval, but stopped abruptly. "Charleston?"

"Yes, sir."

She frowned in suspicion. "Where exactly did you learn to dance?"

"From a book, sir."

"You learned how to dance from a book," she repeated, as her heart thumped erratically in her chest.

"Yes, sir."

She swallowed. Her mouth had gone dry. "Have you had opportunity to put what you learned from this book into practice?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good," she said, then compulsively, albeit reluctantly, asked the follow up, "How exactly?"

"Dief and I used to practice when we were snowed in back home, though he found it somewhat difficult to keep time. Because of his deafness – " He stopped at the incredulous look she gave him. "Oh. Did you mean with an actual woman, sir?"

She closed her eyes and leaned back against the settee as a vein throbbed at her temple.

Ray leaned in the door. "You ready? Turnbull brought the car around."

Fraser waited to be dismissed. But the Inspector was silent. "Sir?"

She didn't open her eyes. "Go," she said, numbly.

"Understood. Good night, sir." He turned on his heel.

"G'night, Inspector," Ray called from the hall. As they trooped down the steps, he asked, "What's wrong with her?"

"I don't know, Ray. But, I'm sure it's my fault."

The Consulate car, festooned with little maple leaf flags, was at the curb with the engine running. Turnbull exited the driver's seat as they approached and trotted to open the passenger door for Ray.

"Shall I move your vehicle off the street, Detective?"

"Yeah, thanks," Ray said and handed him the keys. Then in a mock-stern voice, he warned, "I know the exact mileage on the odometer, Ferris. No joyriding."

"I- I wouldn't dream of it!" he spluttered.

"Ray is just pulling your rope, Constable," Fraser reassured him.

"His chain." At Fraser's blank look, Ray repeated, "I'm just _yanking_ his_ chain._"

"Oh, sorry." To the junior officer, he said, "Ray is 'yanking your chain.'" At Turnbull's uncomprehending stare, he explained, "It's an American idiom. It means he's joking."

"Oh." He smiled, weakly. "Very funny, sir."

"It was," Ray muttered.

'I'll leave the keys on the kitchen table."

"Thanks."

They climbed into the vehicle. As Fraser adjusted the mirrors, he saw Turnbull wave goodbye in the rearview. He nodded grimly in return, before putting the car in gear and heading uptown.


	8. Chapter 8

**CHAPTER EIGHT**

Fraser was a basket case.

To the casual observer, there was no outward sign. His face was set in the bland, neutral expression that Ray thought of as the 'Mountie mask.' His hands on the wheel of the Crown Victoria were steady at the ten and two o'clock positions. He carried on his half of the conversation about the case, without missing a beat. But, the signs were there, nonetheless.

Take his driving, for instance. For this official occasion, they had to use the Crown Vic, which only Benny could drive. Knowing that this was going to be a rough night for his socially-challenged friend, Ray had reined in his impatience with the pace of their travel. Fraser habitually kept all motor vehicles five miles below the posted speed limit. Tonight, he was averaging ten. Given that this was Chicago on a Saturday night, they had been subjected to abuse for fifty seven blocks now. But Ray had kept silent, limiting himself to returning the occasional obscene gesture. That was the second indicator of Fraser's state of mind. He had skipped the usual lecture on driving etiquette, saying nothing as Ray flipped the bird in self-defense, sometimes with both hands. Not even with the old lady in the faded blue Chevy.

When the Waldorf finally loomed into view, Ray pointed out the valet parking stand in plenty of time. Still, Fraser drove past it. He circumnavigated the hotel three times, fruitlessly looking for a parking space. They'd still be circling if Ray hadn't threatened to pull his gun. Another sign of internal distress – Fraser took him seriously, forgetting that Ray wasn't carrying tonight. As he walked away from the valet stand, the claim ticket clutched tightly in one hand, he said, anxiously, "I don't know, Ray. I still think I should park it myself." He made a move to turn back when Ray grabbed his shoulders.

"Benny, it'll be fine."

"But, the car is my responsibility. I signed it out."

"They're just going to park it. It's their job," he said, indicating the cluster of valets. "We've got our own job to do, remember?" He gave him a little shake.

He blew out a nervous breath. "You're right. Of course, you're right, Ray." He squared his shoulders, manfully. "Let's do this." A doorman, resplendent in red coat and gold braid, opened the door with a flourish and directed them inside. A security guard checked them off a list.

Their next hurdle was the cloakroom. A pretty young woman took their topcoats with a smile. "Your hat, sir?" she said, gesturing to the Stetson on Fraser's head.

He looked up, as if surprised it was there. "Oh. Of course." He took it off. She reached for it, tugging the brim to her. But, Fraser had a death grip on it.

"Benny, ya gotta let it go," Ray said, impatiently.

Fraser managed to relax his hold just as the attendant pulled harder. She stumbled backwards. He apologized profusely, but she gave him a frosty look with the claim stub. Ray manhandled Fraser forward to where other guests were clustered in the richly appointed reception area. As they passed through another security screening, each guest was required to show the security badges and additional ID. Ray noted with approval that the identities were checked and rechecked at each station, and each guest had to sign in and out.

They proceeded down a long hall to a spacious foyer to join a short line as it entered the actual ballroom. Fraser walked with the grim determination of a man heading for a firing squad, studying his notebook as he went. At the end of the hall, a young woman in a floor-length gown held a clipboard. When it was Ray's turn, he gave his name and showed the badge again. She checked him off her list and handed him a slip of paper. She repeated the drill with Fraser.

"Present the paper to the crier," she said, before turning to the next person in line. "And then stand at the top of the red carpet as you are announced."

"Announced?" Ray asked, but she had already moved on. He raised his eyebrows at Fraser. He looked as clueless as Ray. As they inched forward, the term became self-explanatory. A man in full livery – the crier, Ray presumed – stood just inside the ballroom entrance. As each guest handed him a slip of paper, he announced their names in a booming cultured voice.

"This is fortuitous, Ray," Fraser said, perking up a little. "Once inside, we can take up position from an inconspicuous vantage point and observe each male guest as he enters the ballroom."

"By 'inconspicuous vantage point,' do you mean 'hiding place'?"

"No," he protested, unconvincingly. "Of course not, Ray."

It was Ray's turn. He handed the crier his slip. He looked over the man's shoulder into the ballroom. The room was lit with crystal chandeliers. Round tables draped in white linen, sported lush arrangements of flowers interspersed with colorful little flags. No two seemed alike. Ray realized that the table assignments were flag-based, and reminded himself to look for a big red maple leaf and not the Stars and Stripes. The tables lined the perimeter of the room, around a vast dance floor. A compact orchestra on a raised platform took up the rear of the giant room. They played something classical, softly, so as not to drown out the crier.

There was a smattering of people, perhaps fifty in all, clustered in small groups around the room. Well, it was still early. That meant the rest of the guests were still coming in behind them. Ray noted with pride that his Armani was in keeping with the men's attire. Fraser, of course, was the only man in Technicolor. But the women were bejeweled and begowned in every hue. It was a setting out of a fairy tale, Ray thought, as he stood at the head of the red carpet. He felt like Cinderella just before she turned into a pumpkin.

"Mr. Raymond Vecchio. Consulate of the Dominion of Canada," the crier boomed.

Heads swivelled his way. Ray felt every eye upon him. He swallowed his nervousness, pausing to conjure the spirit of his personal god of cool. Then, he returned the stares with suave disdain before sauntering down the carpet, the Bee Gees' _Staying Alive _accompanying him on the personal soundtrack in his head. At the end of the carpet, he snagged a glass of champagne from a passing waiter and picked an inconspicuous vantage point for observation.

As he looked back at the red carpet, the crier called, "Constable Benton Fraser, Royal Canadian Mounted Police. Consulate of the Dominion of Canada."

A collective murmur issued from the small gathering in the ballroom. Heads turned. Even the orchestra paused in mid-stanza. There were assorted exclamations amidst the general buzz. Ray could make out the English language comments above the polyglot clamor:

"That's him!"

"That's the guy in the news!"

"It's the Mountie!"

"Oooh, look at him!"

Someone clapped. It started a tsunami of applause that rippled around the room. Fraser, halfway down the red carpet, froze for a moment, then recovered. When he reached the end, he was engulfed as people rushed up, surrounding him. Ray couldn't get close. As he sipped champagne, a woman trilled behind him. "Yoo-hoo, Constable Fraser! Constable Fraser!" She jostled Ray as she passed, making him spill the wine.

"Hey, lady! Watch where you're going!" he said, sharply.

"Sorry, darling," she said, without looking back. She forced her way through the crowd. Ray strained on tiptoes, trying in vain to see into the center of the melee. After a few minutes, the blonde who had bumped him emerged triumphant, her arm locked in Fraser's. She was a looker, stacked, her lush curves poured into a cream-colored designer gown. She glittered from head to toe, sequins on the dress, diamonds at ears, throat and wrists. As they passed Ray, he got a closer look. He revised his estimate of her age upward, as he noted how her young-looking features were frozen in a permanent expression of surprise.

She cooed to the Mountie on her arm, "Call me 'Tuppy,' darling. Everyone does." She waved furiously. "There's Walter. I must introduce you." She waved at a distinguished man standing near the orchestra. "Walter! Look, Walter! I have the Mountie! Isn't he absolutely fabulous?"

Fraser threw a desperate glance over his shoulder. The expression in his eyes was priceless. Ray, shrugging, stayed at his post. Someone had to. He saluted the condemned man with champagne. Fraser was nearly jerked off his feet as Tuppy Harrington dragged him away. Ray turned back to the stairs, hiding his grin behind his glass.

"The Honorable and Mrs. Juan Feliciano. Consulate of the Dominican Republic," the crier intoned.

For the next half hour, Ray watched from his inconspicuous vantage point as the guests entered the ballroom. He tried to ignore the women, concentrating on the male guests. But, some were just too lovely to ignore. Still, Fraser had been right. Ray was able to cross off most of the men as too old, too fat, too short, or too dark.

Of the ones that fit all the parameters, he studied them for a tell-tale scratch or cut. That was tougher. Still, he spotted two men who could fit the bill: a German consulate officer named Strasser was a six foot blond man in his mid-thirties, wearing a bandaid on the left side of his jaw; the other, a Spanish attache by the name of Miguel Ugarte, was more muscularly built, a weightlifter type. His tux sported a Nehru-style collar which Ray admired. A red mark peeked out above the high neck of the jacket. Ray couldn't tell if it was a birthmark or an abrasion, but marked Ugarte as a person of interest. Maybe, he could ask him where he got the suit.

From time to time, he shot a glance around the room. The ballroom of the Waldorf Astoria was an expensive, chic room, possessing an air of sophistication and intrigue. The hum of voices chatting and laughing filled the room, the babel of foreign languages adding an exotic spice. Fraser's red serge was easy to spot as their hostess trotted him around the large room. Like a show dog, Ray thought. She seemed to be introducing him to every VIP in the place, with her arm locked firmly with his. He turned his attention back to the crier.

"Mr. and Mrs. Felix Navidad of the Peruvian Consulate." Ray crossed the squat little man and his dumpy wife off the list.

Across the room, Fraser felt as ornamental as the diamond and platinum brooch pinned to the bodice of Mrs. Harrington's gown. If jewelry could feel, that is. She had introduced him to her husband, but neither Fraser nor the billionaire philanthropist had been able to get a word in over her prattle. He would have liked to have had a conversation with Harrington, a robust seventy year old with wise eyes in a careworn face. Fraser admired his humanitarian endeavors, in particular, the way he used his wealth and prestige to promote diplomatic solutions to conflict. But, Mrs. Harrington had yoo-hooed across the room to the wife of the Peruvian Consul. As she pulled him away, Fraser caught the look of tolerant affection that Harrington directed at her and the amused, if empathetic, glance he bestowed on him.

For the most part, Mrs. Harrington concentrated on the woman at the party as she presented him, like a prize she had just won at raffle. Fraser made polite noises to the ladies, while trying to assess the men he did encounter. As he had predicted, there were few matches to their description. But, one tall, dark-haired man had caught his eye. He had a red mark on his neck, but he had disappeared before Fraser could maneuver Mrs. Harrington closer. He spotted him now at the bar.

"Would you care for a drink, Mrs. Harrington?" he said, when she paused for breath.

"Yes, darling. Champagne." To his disappointment, she accompanied him, only detaching herself when he leaned across the bar. He had to raise his voice to be heard over the clamor.

"One champagne, please," he said to the bartender. "And, a ginger ale."

"Coming right up, sir."

Fraser handed the champagne flute to his hostess, and sipped the soft drink. Someone jostled his arm and he nearly spilled it on his tunic.

"Pardon, senor," a smooth voice said behind him, before ordering a Campari and soda.

"Miguel!" Mrs. Harrington exclaimed. She bussed a tall man on both cheeks. "You look marvelous, darling!" Miguel took her hands in his as she gushed over him.

He was the dark-haired man with the mark on his neck. Now that he was close, Fraser saw it was a strawberry mark peeking above the high collar of his jacket, not a wound. He realized belatedly that he was staring and looked away, but not before the man noticed.

Fraser was embarrassed by his faux pas. As Mrs. Harrington paused for breath, he said, "I beg your pardon, sir."

Miguel waved away his apology. He extended his hand. "Miguel Ugarte, Deputy to the Spanish Consul, at your service." Fraser saw he was wearing the silver cufflinks from last year's ball.

He took the hand. "Ben –"

"– Fraser. The Mountie," Ugarte finished, smoothly. He squeezed Fraser's hand in a hard muscular grip, before releasing it. "My dear fellow, you need no introduction." He turned slightly as the bartender leaned across the bar and handed him his drink. "Everyone is talking of you tonight."

"Isn't he scrumptious, Miguel?" Mrs. Harrington trilled.

She didn't catch the look of disdain that flitted across Ugarte's handsome features when she spoke. It was quickly replaced by an indulgent smile. "Tuppy, you are too bold! You embarrass Senor Fraser."

"Nonsense!" she said, blithely, looping her arm through Fraser's. "He must know how yummy he is." She turned as someone called her name. "Muffy!" She released his arm to embrace a stocky woman with three chins. They chattered at each other, their voices reminding Fraser of his grandfather's prize hens. He took refuge behind his drink, wanting to apply the icy glass to his warm face, but sipped from it instead.

Ugarte studied Fraser over the rim of his own glass for a long moment. "How is Meg?" he asked, finally.

"She ... uh ... Inspector Thatcher is recovering quite well. Thank you," he stammered. The use of the nickname had taken him by surprise.

"Good," he nodded, approvingly. "Still, she must be disappointed. To miss all this." He gestured with his drink to encompass the festive ballroom. "Meg does so like a good time."

Fraser, uncertain how to respond, settled for a neutral nod.

"It was good of her to send you in her place." His smile was arch. "Tuppy is certainly pleased with the substitution."

He said, stiffly, "The Inspector believed that Canada should be represented this evening."

"Of course." Ugarte sipped his drink. "The senseless violence these days," he said, with a doleful shake of his head. "And, in such a public place. The police are useless, as usual ..." He trailed off. "Oh. I meant no offense. The newspaper said you are a police officer."

"In Canada," he acknowledged. "However, my duties at the Consulate are more bureaucratic in nature."

"Ah," Ugarte said. "Does that mean you are prohibited from acting in the matter of the attack on Meg?"

Fraser deflected the question with a truism. "The issue of jurisdiction on such matters is very complex. As you are no doubt aware, law enforcement authority is limited in any host country."

"Limited?" Ugarte looked at him, shrewdly. "But, not non-existent, I warrant." He added, "Meg is a beautiful woman. You caught her, held her, comforted her. You are a man, after all." He leaned close. "Tell me, does she still – "

Before he could finish his sentence, a man pushed between them on his single-minded journey to the bar, leaving a fog of alcohol fumes in his wake. "Scotch, single-malt," he demanded of the bartender. He turned slightly and noticed Ugarte. "Miguel! I was looking for you! Were you down –? "

Ugarte interrupted him with a laugh. "Emil, my friend,it is _I_ who have been looking for _you_." He clapped a firm hand on Emil's shoulder, turning him forcibly back to the bar where the bartender was reaching with his drink. Ugarte nodded a curt farewell to Fraser over his companion's shoulder, and bent his head close to the newcomer.

But, Fraser had seen the bandage on Emil's cheek. He was a tall blond with a German accent, well-built, mid-thirties. He took a step closer to the bar.

"Karim is restless –" Emil was silenced by Ugarte's hand on his arm. The Spaniard turned, his eyes narrowing at Fraser.

At that moment, Mrs. Harrington grabbed Fraser and spun him around. "Come along, darling! I want to introduce you to the Swiss Consul. She will be so envious when she sees what I have!" As she led him away, Fraser saw Ugarte speak into Emil's ear. The German swiveled his head and watched Fraser depart. His expression was not friendly.

Back at the red carpet, Ray dutifully held his post until the rest of the guests were announced. At last, the crier intoned the name of the final guest. At his signal, the orchestra stopped playing.

Walter Harrington – Ray recognized the billionaire-philanthropist at once – stepped to the microphone. "Welcome, my friends, to the Twelfth Annual Diplomacy Ball!" There was a thunder of applause. "As you know, Tuppy and I returned to Chicago from Marseilles only yesterday. We leave again tomorrow for Lisbon and the next leg of our journey to visit every country in the world within the year. But, we could not miss being home tonight. There will be time for the inevitable speeches later. For now, eat, drink and be merry!' He looked to the conductor. "Maestro! Strike up the band!"

With a flourish of his baton, the conductor launched the orchestra into a waltz. Tuppy Harrington dragged Fraser by the hand to the center of the dance floor. He cast one last glance at Ray. He gave him an encouraging thumbs up, but held his breath as he watched the Mountie gather himself. He seemed to be counting the beats in his head. Then, he took his hostess in his arms, and ... waltzed.

Ray and the rest of the crowd gawked at them. Fraser and Tuppy Harrington were a veritable Fred and Ginger as they whirled around the dance floor, all by themselves. Then, couples formed and joined them. Ray shook his head ruefully, and drained his glass. He should know better by now. He was beginning to think that Fraser could read a book on it, then perform brain surgery. Successfully.

He stepped out of the ballroom to a little alcove in the hall where the noise was muted and dialed his cell phone.

"Thatcher," said a brisk voice.

"Inspector, it's me." There was a pregnant pause. "Ray Vecchio," he added, irritated.

"What did Fraser do?" she asked, anxiously.

"Nothing," he said, defensive on his friend's behalf. "Actually, he's doing what you told him to. Mingling, dancing – "

She drew a sharp breath. "_Can_ he dance?"

"Oh, ye of little faith," he chided, though he had been a doubting Thomas himself only moments ago.

"Tell me!"

"Yeah," Ray blurted. "He's a real Twinkletoes."

"Really?"

"Really."

A pause. "Well, it certainly sounds festive, there." Her tone was wistful.

"It is." He added, kindly, "Shame you had to miss it."

There was another awkward pause. Then, Meg said, "How goes the investigation?"

"Actually, that's why I'm calling. Do you know a coupla guys named Emil Strasser and Miguel Ugarte?"

"Surely you don't suspect them. Their reputations are impeccable and –"

"I don't suspect anybody. But Strasser has a bandage on his face and Ugarte a red mark on his neck. I can't tell if it's a scratch or a birthmark."

Silence.

Ray waited patiently, then prompted, "So, do you know Miguel Ugarte?"

"What are you implying, Detective?"

The frosty question took Ray by surprise. He rolled his eyes. "Nothing! I just asked if you knew him." He added, sarcastically, "Jeez, Inspector. I didn't mean in the Biblical sense."

The silence was deafening.

"Oh," he said, lamely.

He heard her draw a deep breath. When she spoke again, her tone could still give frostbite to exposed skin, but she was informative. "Miguel Ugarte has been posted here in Chicago with the Spanish Consulate for several years, though, with his reputation, he could have his pick of any diplomatic posting. He's the darling of the financial set. You may not know it, but that's prized in the field of diplomacy." She relaxed as she talked. "I met him in Ottawa a year ago. I was assigned to Legal Affairs. He was brought in as an expert witness for the Crown. A high profile case involving money laundering and Asian bearer bonds."

Ray chose his next words carefully. "Have you ... uh ... had ... contact ... since you've been here?"

"No," she said, shortly. "I have seen Miguel here and there, but ... um ... we didn't ... don't ... speak."

Her forbidding tone precluded any questions on that score. Ray surmised that whatever had happened in Ottawa had ended badly, or Ugarte had given her the bum's rush when she had been transferred down here. He said, apologetically, "I only asked because he fit our description." He gave a little snort. "For what that's worth. Any chance he's the guy that pushed you over the balcony?"

"Impossible." She was definite. "Miguel attended the same conference I did in Washington this week. In fact, he gave the keynote speech."

"On what?" Ray asked, curious in spite of himself.

" Microeconomics as a tool of diplomacy."

"Microeconomics?" He scratched his head. "What, like Matchbox cars and dollhouses?"

"No, Detective" she said, amused. "It's a term for entrepreneurship at the lowest level." At his silence, she explained. "For example, loaning a seamstress a small sum at low interest to buy a sewing machine so she can go into business for herself. You'd be surprised what a huge impact these tiny transactions can have over time." She took a breath. "But, to answer your question, it couldn't have been Miguel. He and I came in on the same flight. I saw him in baggage claims when I heard the announcement to report to the manager's office. He wouldn't have had time to change his clothes, don a disguise, and beat me to the fourth floor."

Ray scratched him off the list and switched gears. "What about what's-his-name ... Strasser?"

Another silence. Ray was beginning to feel like a dentist pulling teeth.

"Inspector?"

"I don't know him, Detective," she said, primly.

"But, you've heard something," he ventured.

"I don't repeat gossip."

He sighed. "We're not at the hairdresser dishing on some bimbo's boyfriend, Inspector. We're investigating two murders, here."

"I know that, Detective," she said, testily. A pause. "Emil Strasser has a drinking problem. It's been getting worse and it's been getting public. He was pulled over twice in the last few months by the local police for driving under the influence. Diplomatic immunity prevented his being charged, but his Consulate has taken away his vehicular privileges. He's been resisting rehab, despite intervention by his friends and colleagues. If he doesn't straighten out soon, he'll be sent back to Bonn."

"That would be a shame," she added, with feeling. "He is an excellent diplomat, highly regarded, willing to put himself in harm's way for the cause of peace. The prevailing opinion is that he's suffering from post traumatic stress as a result of his last international mission. It was ... difficult."

"So ... could he have been the guy who pushed you?"

She sighed. "I don't know. _You_ could have been the one to push me, Detective. You fit the 'description' as much as anybody. So, does Fraser. Or Turnbull, for that matter."

"Yeah, I know it ain't much to go on. Thanks, anyway." He was about to hang up.

"Wait!"

"Yeah?"

"I know Fraser is your friend, Detective. But ... I need an honest answer." He heard her swallow. "Is he really ... managing?"

"Really, truly," he said, sincerely. "You'd be proud."

"Oh. Well, then," she said, awkwardly. "I was right to send him in my place."

So, she _was _capable of doubting herself, Ray thought. Maybe there was a real person in there somewhere. Deep down.

"Goodnight, Inspector," he said, warmly.

"It's a birthmark," she blurted.

"Huh?"

But, the line was dead. He snapped the phone shut and returned to the ballroom, marveling at the vicissitudes of life. As he plucked a canape from a passing waiter's tray, he spotted a young woman standing by the door into the ballroom. A dark-haired beauty in a flowing purple gown, she looked hesitant and uncertain of where to go and what to do. He smoothed his dinner jacket and approached her.

"May I have this dance, miss?" he said, polite and formal as befitted the occasion.

She smiled shyly. "Con piacere, signore." She added the translation in charmingly accented English. "With pleasure, sir."

Ray's smile lit his face like the sun. "Italiano?" At her nod, he pointed to himself. "Me, too!" Then, translated, "A me! Italiano-Americano!" He took her in his arms and swept her into the whirling mass of dancers.


	9. Chapter 9

**CHAPTER NINE**

Fraser poked his head around the door of the Chippewa Room. To his immense relief, the small room was empty. He slid inside and slumped back against the door. Since the ball began, he had danced every dance without intermission. A flock of women converged on him at the end of each song, clamoring to be his partner. But Mrs. Harrington (he could not bring himself to call her 'Tuppy,' despite her urging) monopolized him, grudgingly releasing him on alternate numbers to another woman. But, she always appeared after the song had ended to reclaim him.

He had done his best to comply with the Inspector's admonition, discussing only the music, the food, the view and the weather with his partners. But, he had quickly exhausted his meager supply of small talk, having sunk so low as to inquire of a Spanish woman whether the rain in her country really did fall mainly on the plain. With Mrs. Harrington, no talk was required of him as she kept up both sides of the conversation. That was useful, as he was preoccupied concentrating on the dance steps while trying to maintain an appropriate distance between them.

He had used all of his skills at deflection and diversion, but the situation had rapidly spiraled out of his control. With their last dance, a tango, Mrs. Harrington had maneuvered him out on the terrace where she had blatantly propositioned him. He discovered, to his dismay, that her use of the terms "yummy" and "delicious," at least as they pertained to him, were meant quite literally. He had pretended not to hear, exclaiming at the sight of an imaginary low-flying hawk, then excused himself to the mens room. Once out of her sight, he had fled the ballroom, then sprinted down a long deserted hallway to seek refuge here in one of the little conference rooms strung along the corridor.

The Inspector had advised him to play to his strengths. He tried to draw on his extensive knowledge of hunting and tracking, mentally inventorying the tactics of prey animals for guidance in how to evade Mrs. Harrington's attentions. But, camouflage was out of the question. As Francesca had predicted, his red tunic stood out like a beacon in this gathering of black-suited men. Attired as he was, there was no safety in numbers. Thanatosis – playing dead – though tried and true in the wild was inappropriate for such a festive gathering. As was chemical combat or defensive regurgitation, though he thought he might be able to manage the latter as a last resort. His stomach had been in knots for hours.

So, he had gone to ground. It was a cowardly maneuver that shamed him. He was a Mountie, after all. But, there were limits to duty, even for him. Mrs. Harrington's indecent proposal had been accompanied by a pat on his posterior. As he hastily fled the field, he comforted himself with the adage that discretion, on occasion, was truly the better part of valor.

He took a look around his refuge. The small room was furnished with two facing sofas, a scattering of overstuffed and straight-backed chairs, a coffee table, and a water cooler. Floor-length draperies covered the only window. He sank on to a sofa, leaned back, and closed his eyes.

The flimsy plan to surreptitiously scrutinize the men at the ball was supposed to be a joint effort. A 'tag team,' Ray had dubbed it. But, from the moment he had been announced on the red carpet, inconspicuousness was out of the question. Ray had done his part, positioning himself to watch as guests were announced. Now that it was done, his friend was embracing the spirit of the evening. Every time Fraser caught sight of him, Ray was smiling at a dancing partner. But, their communication had been limited to a very brief exchange at the bar before Mrs. Harrington had swooped in.

They had both noticed the German with the bandage on his face. Ray had supplied his identity. Emil Strasser, German attache. But, neither Ray nor Fraser had been able to get close to him. Strasser was always accompanied by Miguel Ugarte or another tall man, name and affiliation unknown. Of course, Fraser was further handicapped by his amorous shadow. He was letting his partner down, but he simply did not know how to escape Mrs. Harrington.

He sighed, deeply. Now, that he had a moment to himself, guilt was rapidly setting in. For a lot of things. Not doing his job ... letting Ray down ... failing to 'work the room' ... kissing Francesca ...

To be fair, _she_ had actually kissed _him, _but that was a distinction he doubted her brother would appreciate. At the time, his response had been an honest reaction to what felt like a friendly, supportive gesture. But, in retrospect, he was afraid he had encouraged her feelings or misled her as to the nature of his own. Six months ago, when she had offered her scantily clad self to him in his apartment, he had refused her as gracefully as he could. It had helped that he had been in no condition to avail himself of her favors, even if he had been of a mind to do so. Some part of him was still absurdly grateful to Frank Zuko for the beating his thugs had delivered that day. Since then, Francesca seemed willing to love relatively pure and chaste from afar. He hoped the detente had not changed today. He sighed. If so, he had only himself to blame.

He sighed again. He felt guilty for a lot of things. He always did. But, not for escaping from the clutches of Daphne Morehead Harper Harrington with his virtue relatively intact. But, duty was duty, however unpleasant. Five more minutes respite and he would have to return to the fray.

He used those five minutes to revisit the murder cases in the quiet of his mind. It didn't help him figure out who had killed two young women or why. In the last two days, he and Ray had accumulated a lot of facts about Marta Gunther and Christina Havlek. But few clues. They had shared all the information with the Inspector. But, if there was some commonality there, she didn't see it either.

They were stuck with their original premise: seemingly random attacks on women carrying diplomatic pouches. Opportunity: wide open. Motive: unknown. Means: varied. "Planes, trains and automobiles," Ray had quipped. Then, he sighed and patiently explained yet another pop culture reference to his clueless friend.

Despite the lack of a pattern, Fraser could not shake the feeling that the assaults were entwined, somehow. Once, while teaching him how to track lynx, his friend Quinn had told him the lack of a pattern can itself be a pattern. As was typical of his mentor, he refused to explain the cryptic remark, leaving thirteen year old Ben Fraser to puzzle over it for weeks. He hadn't understood it then, and he still didn't twenty years later.

He rubbed an eyebrow with his thumb. It was maddening to have a hunch, but not be able to find the evidence to support it. It was like having an itch that one just couldn't scratch.

"Yoo-hoo, Benton? Are you in here?"

His eyes flew open. She wasn't at the door to this room. Not yet. But she wasn't far. He leapt to his feet. There was no lock on the door. He rejected his first impulse to barricade it with the sofas and chairs.

"Benton? Yoo-hoo! Are you in this one?" Obviously, Mrs. Harrington was working her way down the line of conference rooms one by one. He had ducked into the last one, just before the hall dead-ended. Was it the third or the fourth room in the row? He couldn't remember.

He looked around in panic. He could not be discovered here. He'd be trapped, cornered. Out of sight and hearing of staff and guests, there would be no restraints on her behavior. If found here, he would be forced to do the unthinkable. He would have to be rude. That, or mimic the black-footed Fulmer, a species of Arctic bird with the effective, if revolting, habit of projectile-vomiting on a hapless predator.

He was at an utter loss. None of the Inspector's advice had covered how to turn down the sexual advances of an influential and rapacious woman without creating an international incident.

Unless ...

His eyes darted to the draperies. The window! If only it was a window that actually opened, unlike most windows he had encountered in this city. He strode to it, and flung the heavy velvet drapes aside.

He stared at the person sitting on the window seat. With her feet tucked up under her gown, she looked like a little girl playing at dress up. But that was an illusion. In reality, a beautiful woman stared back at him. He noted the details automatically – elegant, high-necked gown of white bodice and black skirt, dark blonde hair, wet cheeks, red-rimmed eyes. She hastily wiped the tears away with the back of her hand.

He found his voice. "I - I beg your pardon! Please forgive the intrusion – " he stammered, taking a step back.

"Yoo-hoo, Benton. Where are you hiding, darling?" Mrs. Harrington's voice was right outside the door.

He started to turn when the young woman grabbed his belt and yanked him into the alcove. He stumbled forward, nearly banging his head on the long window pane. Safety glass and sealed, he noted in passing, as he fell awkwardly onto the window seat. She hurriedly pulled the curtains closed.

He heard the door open. "Benton? Are you in here?"

Fraser held his breath. He felt a tap on his knee and looked down. His companion was pointing at his feet. The toes of his boots were poking out from under the draperies. To his chagrin, Benton Fraser, fearless scourge of criminals, who had faced mountain lions, bears and rutting caribou with aplomb, drew his feet up on the bench and wrapped his arms around his knees. Nodding in approval, she put a finger to her lips.

"Benton? Damn, not here, either. Oooh, where are you, you delectable thing?" Mrs. Harrington said, from inside the room. He felt the tips of his ears flush. He turned at a noise beside him. His companion was covering her mouth, trying to stifle something. A sneeze, cough, or guffaw at the ridiculous man beside her – he couldn't tell.

"Benton? Where can you be, darling?" After an interminable minute, he heard the door close. Mrs. Harrington's voice faded as she retreated down the hall, calling his name.

He let out the breath he'd been holding. At the same time, the woman released the cough she had muffled. Fraser put his feet on the floor and stood stiffly, mustering what dignity he could.

"Perhaps, I should explain." He took a breath, then stopped, at a complete loss for words.

She spoke in a lilting voice tinged with a Scandinavian accent. "No explanation is necessary. Madame Harrington's reputation – how do you say – precedes her." Her small smile turned bittersweet. "Sometimes, one must take refuge wherever one can find it, no?" Her gaze encompassed the small room, before settling on him. "We will say no more about it." Clearly, she was including herself in this contract.

"Agreed." He bowed, slightly. "Miss ...?

"Lund," she supplied. "Ilsa Lund. With the Swedish Consulate."

"A pleasure, Miss Lund. I am Constable Bent – "

"Benton Fraser," she finished for him. "The Canadian hero. Everyone knows you."

"I'm afraid the news media blew the incident out of all proportion." He grimaced. "I'm no hero. Far from it."

She looked down at her hands. "Thus speaks all heroes," she murmured in the manner of a quotation. Her voice was nearly inaudible; the words, Swedish. She looked startled when he answered in the same language.

"Still, perhaps I can help?"

She flashed him a brilliant, if brittle, smile, quite at odds with the tear-stained cheeks. "Yes, you can, Constable Fraser," she said, in English. "My handbag is here, somewhere. Will you find it for me?" She went to the water cooler in the corner and wet a handkerchief she drew from her sleeve.

He recognized the deflection for what it was, and did as he was bid. He found the beaded bag under a sofa cushion, and gave it to her. He remained standing, hands behind his back.

She sat in one of the overstuffed chairs, and removed a comb and compact from the bag. "You have an unusual accent. May I ask where you learned Swedish?" Her manner was friendly but reserved, her voice low and soft.

"In Nunavit." At her blank look, he explained, "The Northwest Territories of Canada. The man who taught me was of Swedish-Inuit descent." He shrugged. "I have only a few words."

"Ah," she nodded. "That explains it." She opened the compact, then frowned at the image in the mirror. "We have indigenous Arctic people in my country, too."

"The Saami," he said.

"Yes." She looked up in surprise. "Your accent reminds me of them." She combed her hair as she talked. "Not just your accent. You have lived in the North?"

"Most of my life," he acknowledged.

"A harsh world. And yet, a beautiful one." This time, the smile reached her eyes. He was struck by the color. They were a deep blue, the blue of a cloudless sky reflected in a clear mountain pool. "It is home, yes?"

He didn't answer. Her words had evoked a dizzying array of images and sensations. The sun's rays shining through blue ice on Mackenzie Bay, the wind soughing through the pines outside his cabin, the sweet scent of borealis carnation in bloom, the tang of summer's first cloudberry on his tongue. A wave of homesickness swept over him, as intense as it had been his first weeks in the city.

"You miss it," she said, softly.

"Yes," he murmured, tearing his gaze from hers with an effort. He took a step back. The sensation of falling eased. He tilted his head to one side and rapped the heel of his hand several times against his ear. He repeated the action on the other side.

"Are you alright, Constable?"

"Quite alright, Miss Lund," he replied, without meeting her eyes. He made a mental note to get his ears checked on Monday and busied himself brushing imaginary crumbs from his tunic.

She returned her attention to the mirror and attended to her appearance in silence. Fraser watched her, admiring the skill with which she eliminated all traces of her tears. At least on the outside. His hand stole to his left eye. He wondered how Francesca's handiwork was holding up. Perhaps, he thought, facetiously, he should borrow Miss Lund's compact when she was finished. Then, he remembered his manners.

"Miss Lund, I want to thank you." She looked a question at him. "For your assistance ... uh ... earlier."

She waved a hand at him, dismissively. "It was nothing."

He ventured, "If there is anything I can do – "

"For me?" She tossed her head. "A trifling matter. A hjartesorg." At his puzzled look, she put a hand to her bosom in a dramatic, self-mocking gesture. "A broken heart," she translated.

"Ah," he said. He looked at his boots, not sure what, if anything, he should say to that.

She concentrated on dusting her nose with powder. "And, what about you, Constable? Have you never had your heart broken?" She shot him an admiring glance. "No," she teased, "I think, perhaps, it is you who are the heartbreaker." She had tossed off the flippant remarks. But, at his silence, she looked over her mirror.

Fraser looked away, but it was too late. Her eyes had snared him again.

"Oh," she breathed. Her expression changed. "I am sorry."

He said nothing.

"Not a laughing matter, I see," she said, softly. "Forgive me."

He cleared his throat. "There is nothing to forgive, Miss Lund."

She returned to her powder puff. Fraser busied himself straightening the sofa cushions and tidying the magazines on the coffee table. He desperately wanted to escape the tiny room. Her keen observations had shaken him, but he was hesitant to cause her offense.

She finished her repairs and flashed a smile at her mirror image, "There, now. All better."

It wasn't. And they both knew it. But, despite the forced intimacy of the last few minutes, they were still strangers to each other. Her mask was firmly back in place. So was his.

She stood, smoothing the satin skirt over her hips. "I must return to the ballroom." She walked to the door, then looked back over her shoulder. "Are you staying?" She added, kindly, "I will tell no one where you are."

"Thank you, Miss Lund," he said, stoically. "But, I must return as well." He stepped forward to open the door for her.

As he started to turn the knob, she put her hand on his. Keeping her eyes downcast, she whispered, "It's not a laughing matter for me, either." Then, she took a deep breath and squared her shoulders. "Ready, Constable?"

"Ready, Miss Lund." He opened the door. She sailed through, head held high. He followed her out, closing the door firmly behind him. He was reminded suddenly of a classic short story that had fascinated him as a child. He would lie in bed, mulling over the unsolvable dilemma of its ending. He wondered who he would rather be trapped in a small room with – the tenacious, ostentatious Tuppy Harrington, or the lovely, all-too-perceptive Ilsa Lund?

He decided he'd take his chances with a tiger any day of the week.


	10. Chapter 10

**CHAPTER TEN**

The sound of the orchestra grew loud as Fraser and Ilsa Lund exited the long hall and entered the foyer. He glanced longingly at the mens room as they passed. He didn't need to use it, but it was the one place where Mrs. Harrington couldn't follow. He dismissed the thought as unworthy of a Mountie.

Ilsa stopped short of the ballroom entrance. She extended her hand. "It was a pleasure to meet you, Constable."

He squeezed her hand, gently. "The pleasure was mine, Miss Lund," he said, his customary reserve in place. He left her there and stepped into the ballroom. As he looked about for Ray, he heard a loud voice behind him.

"Ilsa!" a man cried. "Where have you been!" He slurred the words. Fraser saw it was the blond German, Emil Strasser. "Why were you with the Mountie?!" He grabbed her arm. She resisted his pull and he tightened his grip, digging his fingers into her flesh.

"Emil!" she gasped. "You're hurting me!" She was struggling in earnest as he pulled her toward him.

"Tell me!"

Then, Fraser was there. He grasped Strasser's right elbow firmly, exerting pressure on the ulnar nerve until he swore and released Ilsa. As she stumbled backward, Fraser grabbed her with his free hand, steadying her before she fell. Now, Fraser with both hands full, was wide open. Strasser drew his left arm back. Before he could take the swing, Ray yanked the collar of his dinner jacket down from behind, pinioning his arms. He pulled the trapped elbows backward until the inebriated man stopped struggling.

"Schweinhund," he snarled, over his shoulder. "Let me go!"

"Play nice," Ray said into his ear as he frog-marched him to the window alcove down the hall. Fraser and Ilsa followed. So far, no other guests had seen the altercation, though a waiter with a tray of champagne glasses gave them a curious glance and a wide berth.

"Are you alright, Miss Lund?" Fraser asked.

"Yes," she said, rubbing her arm. Strasser struggled, cursing in German. Ray held him easily, looking inquiringly at Fraser and appreciatively at Ilsa.

"Stop, Emil! You embarrass yourself!" she snapped. Strasser froze, but fixed Fraser with a malevolent glare.

"Please, release him," she asked Ray. He hesitated, then let go.

Strasser whirled, hitching his jacket in place. He trembled with outrage, then let loose a torrent of German. Ray didn't understand the language, but he got the drift. The woman responded in the same tongue, clearly trying to calm him down. It was starting to get loud. At that moment, two men rushed up.

"Emil, what is all this fuss? Emil?" the taller one said. His tone was placating, his accent French. Ray remembered the crier's announcement. Renault of the French Consulate. A handsome, debonair man a few years older than Ray. And his companion was the former paramour of Inspector Thatcher and current inhabitant of a very stylish tuxedo, Miguel Ugarte.

"The Mountie was with Ilsa!" Strasser spluttered.

"Emil, my friend!" Renault said, smiling all around. "This is a social occasion and everyone is having such a good time. Let us be pleasant." Ray found himself returning his smile, in spite of the circumstances.

Ugarte, too, tried to soothe him. "Yes, Emil. Please. Do not make the scene." Ray still wanted to ask where he bought his tux, but supposed that now was not the time.

But Strasser would not be soothed. "But, Miguel," he whined. "He was with Ilsa!"

Renault gripped Strasser's shoulder with his left hand, like a big brother might with a younger sibling, all the while smiling that smile. "Emil, please." He squeezed. Hard. Strasser shut up. Ray noted the long angry-looking scratch on the back of Renault's hand. He glanced at Fraser and saw that he saw it too.

"I am sorry, Ilsa, gentlemen. He is a little worse for the drink," Ugarte said. Ray was peering at the muscular man with interest, in light of Thatcher's revelation. Now, that he was up close, he could see the birthmark for himself. Ugarte, noticing his scrutiny, raised a supercilious eyebrow.

"Nice jacket," Ray said, lamely.

Renault extended his hand to Fraser. "Louis Renault, at your service." It seemed to Ray that he held on to Fraser's hand a good deal longer than was usual, before finally releasing it. From the carefully neutral look on his face, it seemed Benny thought so, too. What the hell, the guy was French. At least, he hadn't kissed him on both cheeks.

"Benton Fraser," he replied, his voice as bland as his expression.

His eyes twinkled. "But, of course I know your name! I congratulate you, m'sieu. One hears a great deal about Benton Fraser in Chicago."

"Uh ... thank you," he stammered. "But, the media exaggerated – "

In the exchange of pleasantries, nobody had been paying attention to the drunk. Without warning, Strasser darted around Renault and lunged. He grabbed the red tunic in his fists, slamming Fraser against the wall. "Why were you with her?! Tell me!" he snarled in Fraser's face, his breath reeking of alcohol.

"Emil!" Ilsa cried, aghast.

As Ray and Ugarte pulled him off, Renault slapped him hard. Once. Twice. Strasser, shocked, stared at him, then stopped struggling. Ray glanced at Fraser. He was upright, straightening his tunic. He gave Ray a reassuring nod. Ray let go of the German.

"Constable." Ilsa looked at him with pleading eyes. "He has not been well."

Ray had to agree with her there. Strasser looked sick, empty. Like a deflated balloon. But, he took a deep breath, stood straighter, and let it out. He raised his head.

"Your pardon, sir," he said to Fraser, just barely meeting his eyes.

"Accepted, sir," he replied, with dignity.

"Ah, there," Renault said, soothingly. "It is all over. Peace is once again restored to the Diplomacy Ball." He laid the same hand he had slapped him with on Strasser's shoulder. "Je suis desolee, mon ami," he said, gently. Strasser nodded and shifted his feet.

"Miguel? I think perhaps Emil needs a bit of fresh air." On cue, Ugarte led the now pliant Strasser down the hall. Ugarte kept a hand on his arm, but it looked to Ray like all the wind had gone out of Strasser's sails.

He turned back as Renault said, "Thank you, gentlemen." He grimaced. "Emil has not been himself, lately. Has he, Ilsa?" She nodded her agreement as she rubbed her arm. "You understand, of course," he said to Ray, one man of the world to another, as he brought an imaginary cup to his lips and tossed it back.

"Hey, no problem." Ray smiled, ruefully. "Been there myself." The guy was an adroit diplomat, transmuting Ray's anger at a drunken lout to philosophical empathy for the human condition. All in the space of five seconds.

Renault turned the thousand-watt smile on Fraser. "Perhaps, we can continue our conversation at another time and another place, m'sieu. I must see to my friend just now."

"Uh ... y-yes, of course."

Renault bowed politely, and turned to follow Ugarte and Strasser. As he passed Fraser, he laid a hand on his arm and leaned in. "I will call you. Dinner next week." It was not a question. Before Fraser could respond, Renault was gone.

Ray wondered if his naive friend had recognized that invitation for what it really was or whether they'd have to have a talk about when the birds and the bees played for the other team. But, his pink ears revealed that Benny wasn't entirely clueless. Ray gave him a pitying glance. Full frontal assault by Tuppy Harrington, and now, Louis Renault advancing from the rear.

In the quiet that followed his departure, Ilsa said, "I too apologize for Emil. Louis is correct. He has not been himself, lately." To Ray, she added, "Thank you, sir, for your assistance."

Fraser, color still high, said, "Miss Ilsa Lund, allow me to introduce Ray Vecchio. A guest of my Consulate." He turned to Ray. "Miss Lund is with the Swedish Consulate."

She extended her hand. Ray brought it to his lips. He couldn't let her think the French had cornered the market on suave.

"My pleasure, Miss Lund," he said, smoothly.

She was charmed by his courtly gesture and reckless grin. "Vecchio? Like the Venetian bridge?"

Ray said, surprised, "The Pont Vecchio, yeah. My family is originally from Venice." He added, "But, I was born here. In Chicago."

"The City of the Big Shoulders," she said, warmly, "meets the City of Canals. Beautiful places, both."

Ray nodded. "Have you been?"

"Oh, yes. I lived in Venice when I was a child. And you?"

He shook his head. "Someday."

"What about you, Constable?"

Ray snorted. He couldn't help it. Benny had never been south of the 49th Parallel until he'd come to Chicago last year.

"Not outside of a book, Miss Lund," Fraser said, with a sour glance at Ray.

She smiled at them. "You must go. There is so much that is beautiful in the Old World," she said. "But," she said, looking past Ray to where Emil and friends were huddled in the lobby, "at this moment, I must confess that I prefer the New."

Ray jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "Friend of yours?" he asked, wryly.

She nodded. "And my colleague," she replied. "We served on many diplomatic missions." She made a face. "But, I am afraid you will have the wrong impression of Emil. Despite appearances, he is quite a skilled diplomat. The drinking ... it started three months ago." She shook her head, sadly. "Things have been ... difficult ... for him."

Ray looked askance, but politely kept his skepticism to himself. He frowned as he saw movement behind Fraser. "Heads up, Benny. On your six," he muttered, just as the orchestra launched into a new song. A polka.

Fraser froze. Only his eyes moved, trying to see behind him without moving his head.

"There you are, Benton!" Tuppy Harrington gushed over his shoulder. "I've been looking all over for you!"

Before Fraser could respond, Ray stepped up. "Wow! Is this my lucky night!"

Tuppy looked at him as if he had materialized out of thin air. Ray couldn't tell if she was surprised that Fraser wasn't alone, as she always looked surprised. But, he imagined she had tunnel vision where the Mountie was concerned.

"Oh?" she said, cooly. "How so, sir?"

Ray grinned. "Miss Lund here had just accepted Fraser's invitation for the next dance. Isn't that right, Miss Lund?"

Without skipping a beat, Ilsa said, "Yes. Shall we, Constable?" She linked her arm with Fraser's. He hesitated, looking like a deer in the headlights.

Tuppy's eyes narrowed, looking suspiciously between them. Ray laid on the charm. "That leaves one lovely lady available. As I said, my lucky night." He bowed, unctuously. "May I have the honor, Mrs. Harrington?"

It worked. "Well, yes, I suppose. Of course, Mr ...?" she said, flattered.

"Vecchio. Like the bridge." He offered her his arm. She took it and they walked to the dance floor. Ray glanced over his shoulder to see an expression of infinite gratitude on Fraser's face and sympathetic amusement on Ilsa Lund's. He grinned. An attractive lady with a sense of humor, and quick on the uptake. His favorite kind.

Fraser was apologetic. "Miss Lund, you don't have to – "

She patted his arm. "We do not want to make a liar out of your friend, now. Do we?"

"No," he said, gratefully. They stepped to the dance floor. He silently counted ana one- ana two - ana three, then took her in his arms and whirled her out on to the floor. The polka was the liveliest dance of the evening and he found little breath or opportunity to carry on conversation. She was a wonderful partner and he found himself relaxing into the music for the first time this evening. Especially, since he didn't have to fight to keep her from grinding herself against him. When the music ended, they found themselves in the center of the dance floor, a bit breathless.

As they applauded the band, he said, "Thank you kindly, Miss Lund."

"No," she said, placing her hand on his arm. "_I_ am grateful." She smiled. "I did not want to attend tonight. But, thanks to you and your friend, I am beginning to think I may make it through the evening."

He looked at her, quizzically. But then, Mrs. Harrington was at his elbow, Ray right behind her.

"Benton," she said, imperiously, holding out her arms.

Fraser bowed to Ilsa. He squared his shoulders and dutifully took Mrs. Harrington in his arms as the orchestra played a slower tune.

Ray said to Ilsa. "May I, Miss Lund?"

"Yes, Mr. Vecchio. I'd be honored."

"Call me Ray," he said, as he took her in his arms.

"If you will call me Ilsa."

"Deal."

They fit easily together. She was tall, five ten or so, reaching a spot just below his nose. They moved in tandem to the music. She was a great dancer, Ray thought, light on her feet, quick to respond to his cues.

After a while, she said, "That was a noble thing you did for your friend."

"Nah," he said, modestly. "Just giving the poor guy a break."

She frowned in disapproval. "It_ was _noble ... even if you did tell Tuppy that falsehood. Really, Ray, with that honest face of yours, she never stood a chance. Even I believed it." She shook her head, dolefully. "Shame on you."

"Uh ... well ... I ..." Ray stammered.

She said, with a straight face, "Tell me, have you ever considered a career in diplomacy?"

He laughed, delighted. As if on cue, Fraser and Tuppy Harrington whirled by. Say what you will about Tuppy, she was an excellent dancer. Ray had enjoyed the polka. But, unlike Fraser, he hadn't had to defend his virtue. It may not have been obvious to the rest of the room, but Ray could tell the Mountie was working hard to keep their hostess at a discreet distance.

"Ours is not to reason why ..." he muttered. He gave his friend an encouraging nod as they passed.

Ilsa noticed. "He is a good man," she ventured.

"The best." He gave her an impudent grin. "Between Tuppy and Renault, I hope he survives the evening."

She laughed. Ray liked her laugh. "Louis thinks life is too short to play games. If he finds a man attractive – or a woman, for that matter – he will make it known." She noticed Ray's surprise and explained. "Louis has no conviction, one way or the other." She added, impishly, "You might say he ... blows with the wind."

"So, to speak," he said, chuckling.

She looked over his shoulder as Fraser and Tuppy danced by. "But, Louis isn't as persistent as Tuppy. With him, Constable Fraser would have to make the next move."

"That'll be the day," Ray muttered. At her mystified look, he explained, "Not gonna happen, Ilsa. Fraser is as straight as an arrow." On reflection, he added, "Straighter."

"Yes, I know," she murmured, as if thinking aloud. "Still, anyone would be tempted to try." She saw the look of dismay on Ray's face. "But what a fool I am. Talking about another man while we are dancing. A faux pas, as Louis would say." She looked up at him through her lashes. "Ooooh. I have done it again."

Ray laughed, enchanted by her sense of humor. "Forget about it."

She changed the subject. "Are you a mounted policeman, too, Ray?"

"No." Then added, "I'm in maple syrup." He regretted the lie, but there was no help for it.

"How sweet for you," she said, with a twinkle.

He gestured with his head to where Emil leaned against a column, watching them.

Renault and Ugarte were close, keeping a weather eye on him.

"Teaches you how to handle saps," he said, his tone wry.

"Or sticky situations?" she asked, arching one brow.

"That, too," he said, grinning.

Their conversation was as free-flowing and easy as the dancing. Born in Oslo, she was the diplomatic equivalent of an army brat. Her father, consul for the Swedish government, had been posted all over Europe. He had met her mother, an opera singer, in Rome. Her older brother was now a tenor with La Scala; Ilsa had followed her father into the diplomatic corps. She was now in her eleventh year of service, the last two stationed, on and off, in Chicago. She loved the city, especially its deep-dish pizza, jazz, and baseball. When Ray apologized for the Cubs, she demurred. "I like the underdog," she explained. "They have nowhere to go, but up."

Fraser and Tuppy passed by. "They say you should not believe everything you read in the newspaper," Ilsa said, watching them. "Tell me, did he really save that woman?"

"Yeah," Ray said, sincerely. "He's a real hero. Rescues stray cats from trees all the time."

"According to him, the press exaggerated the incident."

"He's Canadian," Ray explained, shrugging. "For Fraser, it's all in the line of duty." He peered over her shoulder. His friend was trying to steer Tuppy away from the terrace, and she kept trying to lead him back to it. "Like now," he said, sourly.

Ilsa followed his gaze. "You think Tuppy Harrington is above and beyond the call?"

"Yeah, I do."

"What about you, Ray?" He looked a question at her. "Are you doing your duty tonight?"

He pulled her closer. "I'm not Canadian," he said, softly.

"Ray." She pulled back so she could look into his eyes. "I'm flattered ... but ..."

He loosened his grip, backpedaling mentally, if not physically. Man, he had really misread the situation here! She had just been asking about Fraser. "Hey, uh ... no ... er ... problem." To his chagrin, he was stammering. "Sorry. My mistake." He wished fervently that the song would end. Like now. Like right now. He held her awkwardly as the band played on.

"No, Ray," she said, hastily. "It's not you. " She drew a deep breath, held it, then said, "It's me." She looked away. "I ... I ... lost – "

Whatever she was going to say was drowned out in a deafening fanfare from the orchestra. The dancers on the floor, the waitstaff, and the rest of the guests stopped in their tracks and faced the band.

Thank you, God, Ray thought, as he released her and turned toward the stage.


	11. Chapter 11

**CHAPTER ELEVEN**

As Walter Harrington mounted the steps of the bandstand, Ray peered over heads on the crowded dance floor. He spotted Fraser's red tunic in the distance. Tuppy Harrington was stuck to his side, like a lamprey. But, even her attention was on her husband as he strode to the microphone. The distinguished man waited for the applause to die down.

"Well, it's not the witching hour, but the appointed time for the dreaded speeches." On cue, a collective groan arose from the assembly. "I'll do my best to be brief."

He sobered. "It is sometimes said that 'peace is only a pause between wars.' I know that you here today don't subscribe to that. After all, peace is your business." He paused. "Many of you have made that your life's work, far away from wherever you call home."

"We all heard about Margaret Thatcher's close call this week." There were murmurs among the audience. "Thankfully, Margaret will make a full recovery, but she had to stay home tonight. Happily, she sent a Canadian Galahad in her place." Smiling broadly, he spoke directly to Fraser on the dance floor. "Take a bow, Constable." He obeyed, bending stiffly at the waist with Tuppy still latched to his arm. The applause was enthusiastic.

When it settled, Harrington sobered. "Sadly, for some, there is no going home. Many of you knew Christina Havlek." A murmur rose from the audience at the mention of the name. "For those that didn't, Christina served as deputy Consul for the Republic of Hungary here in Chicago. She attended our ball since its inception twelve years ago, and planned to be here tonight. Tragically, she was killed in an automobile accident on Thursday." He paused to let the buzz in the room settle.

"Christina may not have been stationed in a war zone. Nevertheless, she was serving her country for a cause she believed in. That _we_ believe in. The cause of peace. We, her friends in Chicago, both in and out of the diplomatic community, valued her. We will miss her. Please join me in a moment of silence as we say goodbye to our friend and colleague." He bowed his head.

A hush settled over the room. Ray bowed his head. He knew that Christina Havlek's death was no accident. He renewed his vow to find her killer. Beside him, Ilsa Lund murmured a prayer, in what Ray presumed was Swedish. He realized that she probably knew the dead woman. Maybe, she could add something to their investigation, some background beyond the official line from her government.

Walter Harrington raised his head. "Ladies and gentlemen, at this time, I would like to invite Louis Renault, Miguel Ugarte, Emil Strasser, and Ilsa Lund to join me on stage." Ilsa did not look surprised at hearing her name, but she didn't look eager. There was a buzz around the room as the named individuals were urged forward. Ilsa gave Ray an apologetic smile, then she too headed to the stage. Emil Strasser had a little trouble with the steps, but Renault and Ugarte gave him a hand.

"As many of you know," Harrington continued, "these diplomats accompanied Victor Laszlo to Casablanca on his final mission." He paused, and cleared his throat. "Victor and I are ... were ... old friends. When I heard the news three months ago, I fled from it. Literally. I have been running ever since." He grimaced. "I confess to you now, that my epic 'round the world journey was my way of escaping a very grim reality."

He gestured to the people sharing the stage. "But, these four did not run. Despite great personal danger, they faced tragedy head on. They stayed in Casablanca ... and performed a miracle."

A wave of emotion rippled around the room. Ray looked up at Ilsa, even more impressed with the young woman. Victor Laszlo was a household name, the odds on favorite for the Nobel Peace Prize. A bona fide legend, who would appear at the site of the ugliest international conflict, and more often than not, make it better. His famous presence guaranteed exposure of the nastier tactics on the world stage. Bosnia, Serbia, Rwanda, the Congo. All the hotspots of the last decade.

Until three months ago, when a car bomb had ended his life on the crowded streets of Casablanca. Ray had been in the Riv with Fraser when the news had come over the radio. They had sat there, stunned and saddened by the death of the great man. Ray had no idea that Ilsa Lund had been a part of that final mission to stop a civil war. A civil war that left men, women and children hacked to pieces in its wake.

The shock and horror at Laszlo' death had focused such intense scrutiny on that conflict that the combatants had agreed to peace talks. The truce was still holding. Laszlo's team – the three men and one woman on stage – had made that happen, despite the death of their leader. He looked at Emil Strasser with new eyes. Ilsa said his drinking had started three months ago. Ray shuddered at the thought of one of his fellow detectives or Fraser getting blown apart by a car bomb. Would he have coped any better? Ray found himself feeling sorry for the man.

Strasser and Ugarte were the two he had flagged first as being of interest, for the bandage on Strasser's face and the mark on Ugarte's neck. He had added Renault to the short list when he saw the scratched hand. Well, Strasser, was a drunk, and looked like the type that fell down a lot. Ugarte was born with his mark. And, Renault ... he probably had a cat.

Ray was embarrassed now by the tenuousness of a line of investigation that would lead him to suspect, however briefly, these men of peace. It was time for him and Fraser to admit their plan was a bust. A dead end, like so much of police work. Ray could be philosophical about it. He had to be or he'd have quit long ago. Once the speeches were over, he'd grab Fraser for a quick chat. Put an end to this line of inquiry and try to enjoy the remainder of the evening.

Still, he was happy he had shown up tonight. He was glad to have met Ilsa Lund, even if she wasn't interested in him. She looked pale up there on the stage, but held her head high as she looked out over the crowd. She spotted Ray. He gave her a broad, encouraging smile to show there were no hard feelings. She got his drift immediately, nodding her appreciation in return.

Walter Harrington shook hands with the men and kissed Ilsa's cheek. He faced the audience again. "Victor Laszlo embodied the spirit of what we celebrate tonight. The art of diplomacy. Or, as he called it, the art of conversation. People that talk to each other, he would say, are far less likely to kill each other. And, oh, could Victor, talk!" There was a ripple of amusement. "I remember many a time at my grandfather's old cabin on the Calumet when Victor and I would talk through the night. We'd solve all the world's problems, as I recall." He paused. "Though, we never did catch a fish.

Again, a wave of laughter flowed around the room. When it faded, Harrington said, "Victor claimed that volubility was his greatest asset. By the time he was done talking, he'd say, a man would forget why his enemy was his enemy." He voice thickened. "But, I will never forget why my friend was my friend. Tonight, I am pleased and proud to announce that I am endowing a chair in his name at Loyola University, my alma mater. To sponsor the future peacemakers of this world and to ensure that the work of Victor Laszlo will continue for generations to come." His voice broke on the last word. The applause was thunderous.

When it settled down, Harrington continued. "Not many know that Victor began his career twenty years ago, here with the Norwegian delegation when it was occupying the old townhouse on Stetson Avenue. He never forgot his Chicago roots, even when his work took him far away from us. He could not always attend our little ball, but he made it just last year. I was honored to know Victor Laszlo, the great leader. I was even more privileged to know the man. The man who loved beer with a burger, music and movies."

He took Ilsa's hand and spoke in her ear. She looked startled, then nodded, reluctantly. Harrington led her to the microphone. "Victor's great friend, Ilsa Lund, has agreed to grace us with his favorite song." He smiled at the crowd. "Some of you have had this pleasure before. But for those who haven't, you are in for a treat. The opera's loss was our gain when Ilsa chose to follow in her father's footsteps."

"My friends, let us not be sad, as we celebrate Victor's life tonight. Let us rededicate ourselves here to his unfinished work ... the work he gave his life for." He stepped aside, as the conductor raised his baton. The pianist played a long solo intro, then the orchestra swelled behind him. Ilsa smoothed her hands down the sides of her dress, drew a deep breath, and sang into the microphone:

"_You must remember this, _

_A kiss is still a kiss,_

_A sigh is still a sigh,_

_The fundamental things apply, _

_As time goes by."_

Her voice was strong, melodic. A contralto, Ray thought they called it. Did her mother teach her to sing like that? The words of the song flowed over him like warm honey.

"_And when two lovers woo, _

_They still say 'I love you.'_

_On that you can rely._

_The world will always welcome lovers,_

_As time goes by."_

"_Moonlight and love songs,_

_Never out of date,_

_Hearts filled with passion, jealousy and hate,_

_Woman needs man,_

_And man must have his mate – _

At the last line, she faltered and stopped. The conductor paused, uncertain, and the orchestra ground to a halt. The silence was deafening as Ilsa stood there, head bowed, shoulders shaking. Ray, aching for her, started toward the stage.

Then, a familiar tenor voice rose, unaccompanied, from the dance floor:

"_It's still the same old story,_

_A fight for love and glory, _

_A case of do or die._

Every eye was now on Fraser. The orchestra belatedly, but enthusiastically, swung in

behind him as he sang:

_The world will always welcome lovers,_

_As time goes by."_

The orchestra repeated the refrain by itself. Ilsa, recovering her composure, stepped away from the mic, and linked hands with Emil Strasser and Miguel Ugarte. They, in turn, joined hands with Louis Renault and Walter Harrington and raised their arms over their heads, beckoning the crowd to join in the final verse. Ray's heart swelled as he, and four hundred voices, sang the big finish:

"_It's still the same old story,_

_A fight for love and glory_

_A case of do or die._

_The world will always welcome lovers,_

_As time goes by."_

The song ended on a high, triumphant note. Everyone is the ballroom was standing, clapping and cheering, their faces aglow. Ray surreptitiously wiped his eyes, then loudly blew his nose. He wasn't the only one, on the floor or on the stage. Tears were flowing down Emil Strasser's face. He was flanked by Ugarte and Renault. It looked like they were holding the poor guy up. Ilsa stepped down from the stage on Walter Harrington's arm. They made their way to Fraser, the crowd parting for them. She took Fraser's hand in hers and said something. He replied, looking embarrassed. Walter Harrington clapped him on the back, then Ray's view was obscured as the crowd swallowed them up.

He shook his head in admiration. His self-effacing friend had surprised him. Again. He knew Benny's intention had been to toss a lifeline to the floundering Ilsa in the only way he could. But the Mountie was once again the center of unwanted attention as men cheered and women gazed adoringly. Tuppy Harrington was left behind as the crowd hustled Fraser to the bar in a swelling tide of bonhomie. Ray caught flashes of the crimson tunic, but he couldn't see Ilsa.

The orchestra started another song. He nabbed a glass of champagne from a passing waiter, an hors d'oeuvre from the buffet table, and slumped against a wall, thinking deep thoughts.

If there was one woman who could break through the shell Fraser had erected around his heart – someone that could make him put Victoria Metcalf behind him for good – it might just be Ilsa Lund. If it happened, Ray wondered if he was a big enough man to be happy for his friend. He scowled. Probably not. He was no good at being noble.

He popped an olive in his mouth, just as someone tapped him on the shoulder.

"Ilsa!" he said, mouth full, then hastily swallowed the olive, pit and all.

"Hello," she said, rather shyly.

There was an awkward silence. Then, Ray said, "You have a beautiful voice."

"Thank you." She made a face. "Walter surprised me up there. I was not expecting to sing." She looked up at him. ""Ray, I would like to finish our conversation ... to explain ..."

He shook his head. "Ilsa, it's OK. You don't owe me anything." He looked over at the bar. Fraser stood solemnly as Walter Harrington raised a glass in a toast. The Mountie was holding a glass of what looked like champagne, but Ray would bet his last dollar was actually Canada Dry. Ray bobbed his head in his direction. "Fraser's a great guy."

She looked puzzled, then said, "Oh, no, Ray. It's not like – "

"S'okay, Ilsa." His smile was bittersweet. "I'm used to it."

She put a finger to his lips. "Ray, do you know the first rule of diplomacy?"

He shook his head.

She smiled, taking any sting from her words. "To listen."

"Sorry," he said, defensively. "It's just that – "

A man squeezed in next to her, reaching for an appetizer. A woman congratulated her on the song. Ilsa thanked her, then took Ray's hand. "It seems that the only way to speak privately in a crowded ballroom is on the dance floor. May I have the honor?" Without waiting for an answer, she pulled him to her. He put his arms around her and concentrated solely on the music.

The awkwardness between them melted away after a minute, replaced by the easy rapport that had come so naturally earlier. She must be a great diplomat, Ray thought, with her gift for connection.

"That's better," she said, as if reading his mind.

"Yeah."

"Are you ready to listen?" At his nod, she continued. "Before we were interrupted, I started to tell you that I had ... lost ... someone. Someone very dear to me." Her voice softened to a near-whisper. "It's been three months, but it feels like yesterday."

"Victor Laszlo." His sympathy was heartfelt. "I'm so sorry, Ilsa."

She was silent for a stretch. When she spoke again, Ray had to strain to hear. "No one knew about ... us. Oh, that we were friends and colleagues, yes." Her fingers tightened around his. "But not that we were ... in love. Victor insisted on keeping it a secret. Do you understand why?"

Ray understood completely. "Because you would be targeted. He couldn't stand the thought of losing you."

She nodded. "He thought I would be safer if no one knew. He made me promise not to tell ... anyone." Her eyes were dry, but he could see the pain reflected in their clear depths. "But, it has been so _hard_, Ray. Not only losing him, but not being able to talk of him. To stand up on that stage and pretend. To be unable to mourn ... as his widow." She looked shocked at her own candor. "I ... I do not know why I am telling you this. Strange, I know so little about you. No one knows. Not even my family. And, now," her voice cracked. "I have broken my promise." She bent her head to his shoulder.

"It's OK. Shhh, it's OK." He stroked her back, soothingly. "Sometimes, you just gotta tell somebody or burst."

"Y-yes," she managed. "Or burst."

"And, I have an honest face," he said, in her ear.

She made a sound, the kind you make when you don't know whether to laugh or cry.

"You do." She tossed her head, flipping the hair from her eyes. "You must think me a terrible diplomat, ready to spill state secrets at the drop of a hat," she said, ruefully.

"No, I don't think you're a terrible diplomat," he said, making a goofy face. He added, more seriously. "The truce in Casablanca is proof of that." She shot him a grateful look. "I think a good diplomat would have to be an excellent judge of character ... I won't tell anyone, Ilsa."

"I know." She looked sheepish. "I do not know how I know, but I do."

"Perceptive, as well as beautiful," he said, and laid her head back on his shoulder. They moved in perfect synchrony to the music.

Ray ventured, "Strasser's drinking problem ... it started after ... Casablanca." It wasn't really a question.

"Yes. I am afraid Emil is not handling Victor's death very well." She laughed a humorless laugh. "None of us are."

"Tell me," he said, softly.

Like many people who had felt the relief of letting go of an unbearable secret, she wanted to talk. The act of confiding eased her tense muscles and she melted in Ray's arms. He held her close and moved her in time to the music as she told him of the last three months.

After Victor's death, the team had stayed on to complete the mission, setting aside their grief, and hanging in until it was done. But, things fell apart when they returned to Chicago. Heartsick, Ilsa had taken an indefinite leave of absence. She went home to Oslo, but she was back after a month, finding it increasingly impossible to pretend to her family.

"I was lonely, Ray. I had nothing. Not even hope." She stopped.

He stroked her back until she went on.

She returned to find her friends in disarray. Miguel Ugarte was keeping up a punishing travel schedule, accepting every speaking engagement that came his way, no matter how remote. She had hardly seen him in the last few months. Louis Renault, her frequent companion for a meal or a show in the past, seemed to be avoiding her.

"Perhaps, it is my imagination. He _has _been busy," she acknowledged. "As a matter of fact, he just returned from Casablanca this week."

"He went back?" Ray was incredulous.

She nodded against his shoulder. "A few times, now. I think he does it for Victor's sake. To ensure the truce will hold." She paused. "Louis has a gift. A ... a ... an appetite for life ... new people ... new experiences ... people respond to that ... to his ... what is the phrase? ... his joie de vivre." She looked at Ray. "You have felt it yourself."

"He's very charming," he admitted.

"It's more than that, Ray. Victor often said that Louis isn't French. He is a citizen of the world." She paused. "I am grateful to Louis for doing so, but I can never go back to Casablanca." She laid her head back on his shoulder.

After a moment, he prompted, "And, Strasser?"

She sighed. "Are you familiar with the term 'survivor's guilt,' Ray?"

"Yes."

She told him how on the fateful day, Victor and Emil had met with a leader of the opposition. It was on neutral ground at a small café called The Blue Parrot in the heart of the old city.

"Just the two of them?" Ray was surprised. "No bodyguards?"

She nodded. "That was one of the conditions. A face to face without an entourage. One aide only. To establish the ground rules with both sides, with the goal of mediation. It's not an uncommon way to get the peace process started," she explained. "Less threatening, less posturing, you see. "

She continued. "The meeting was going well, when Emil became ill. He did not want to leave, but Victor insisted. He was making progress. He said if Emil were to vomit at the table, it would set the cause of peace back a decade." She laughed a sad little laugh. "So, Emil took a taxi back to the embassy. Food poisoning, the doctor said. He was violently ill for days."

Her voice was flat as she said, "The Moroccan police said the bomb must have been put on the car during the meeting. Some splinter group no one ever heard of claimed responsibility." She paused. "Victor and his driver were killed instantly." She was silent for a long moment.

She drew a breath. "Well, you know the rest. The bombing had the opposite effect than was intended, driving the two sides together, instead of apart. We stayed until it was clear that the truce would hold. Then, we came back to Chicago ... "

"I was so caught up in my own misery, Ray. I could not see how badly Emil was coping. Until I returned from Oslo. I tried to talk to him. Everyone tried." She paused. "He is in danger of being removed from his post. His government will no longer tolerate ..." She looked up, meeting his eyes. "The man you saw in the hall ... that is not Emil."

"Understood," Ray said. "I feel for the guy."

She laid her head back on his shoulder. Ray held her hand in his, close to his heart. They were silent as they moved to the music.

"A penny for your thoughts," she said, at last.

Ray cleared his throat. "I ... I was wondering if you will stay in Chicago."

She moved her head back and forth on his shoulder. "I do not know ... I have been thinking of going somewhere new. Somewhere Victor and I have never been." She paused. "Like Lisbon. I'm hitching a ride with Walter and Tuppy there tomorrow." She felt him start, and added, "It's a temporary assignment, a week or two at most. But, there is a post there, if I want it." Her next words were reassuring. "I have not made up my mind."

"Good," he muttered, then realized he had said it out loud. "Sorry. That's none of my business."

"No," she agreed. "But, thank you all the same."

"For what?"

"For wanting it to be."

He had nothing to say to that.

"I like you, Ray," she said, simply.

"I like you too, Ilsa."

She squeezed his hand. "You understand – the timing is – what is the word?"

"It sucks?"

She laughed, softly. "Yes."

"Story of my life," he murmured, then drew her head back down to his shoulder.

After a while, she said, "You are very easy to talk to, Ray." Her tone became playful. "You must sell a lot of maple syrup. Especially, with that honest face."

He tensed. "Y-yeah. Maple syrup."

"Ray?"

He hesitated, then made a decision. "Ilsa, I'm sorry." He willed himself to relax rigid muscles, but he couldn't meet her eyes. "The truth is ... " he stammered. "Uh, the truth is ... "

"What is it, Ray?"

He forced himself to look at her. His mouth felt dry as dust. He swallowed hard, before saying, "I'm a cop."

She stopped dead. "Cop?"

They were drawing attention not dancing in the middle of a dance floor. He took her arm, and drew her unresisting to the side of the room. "Yeah. Detective. Chicago Police." He paused, then continued. "I'm here undercover. I'm sorry, Ilsa. I couldn't tell you."

The look on her face cut him to the quick. It was a complex mix of emotions – shock, hurt, betrayal, fear. Without a word, she turned on her heel and walked away. She was immediately swallowed up by the crowd of dancers.

"Ilsa!" He started after her, then stopped. What could he possibly say to make it right? He became aware that dancers were swerving around him. He retreated to a corner of the room, nabbing another drink from a passing waiter. What the hell was wrong with him? He just broke cover on the job to a woman he had just met. But, he couldn't continue the deception, not after her revelation. He stood on tiptoe and scanned the room. Ilsa was nowhere in sight.

Neither was the Big Red One. Tuppy was actually dancing with her husband, though Ray caught her looking intently over his shoulder. She was searching for Benny, too.

He looked on the terrace, the foyer, the alcove. No Ilsa. No Fraser. He ducked into the mens room. Two men were at the urinals. Neither one was Fraser. Ray used a urinal. He took his time washing his hands until the other men left. Then, he went down the line of stalls. Empty, but for the last one. He bent and looked under. Two highly-polished brown boots were visible. He took the adjoining stall, locked the door, and knocked on the partition between.

He kept his voice low. "Benny?"

A beat. "Ray?"

"Yeah, it's me." He paused. "You OK?"

Another beat. "Yes, Ray."

"We need to talk." At the sound of someone running water at the sink, he added, "Privately."

A pause. "I'll meet you in the Chippewa Room. Five minutes."

Ray looked at his watch. "OK." He unlocked the door, then turned back. "You sick or something, Benny?"

A longer pause. "No, Ray."

Ray waited but there was nothing further. He shrugged and left the stall. As he exited the bathroom, he was pounced on by Tuppy Harrington.

"Oh, it's you," she said, disappointed. She tried to peer in the door before it swung shut behind him. "Is there anyone else in there, Mr. Bridge?"

"No, Mrs. Harrington," he said, with his best altar boy face. "Nobody at all."

"Where can he be?" she muttered, then about-faced, heading for the lobby.

Ray poked his head back in the ballroom, but he still didn't see Ilsa. He wasn't about to stake out the ladies room. Unlike Tuppy, he had his pride. He scanned the marquee _cum_ map on the wall outside the ballroom. Chippewa ... Chippewa ... there it was, the last conference room at the end of the long hallway to the left. He looked back over his shoulder, but it was clear. No Tuppy, no anybody watching him. He passed Ojibwe ... Cree ... Potawatomee ... here it is, Chippewa.

Ray opened the door a crack and stepped inside. He took another step, then stood frozen, shocked into immobility. A minute passed. The door opened as Fraser squeezed through it.

"Ray," he whispered. "I don't think she followed me, but – " Ray cut him off with a sharp movement of his hand, then put a finger to his lips. Fraser blinked, then followed his gaze to the center of the grouping of sofas and chairs.

Emil Strasser, the drunken diplomat, lay on the carpet. Scarlet stained his white shirt and cummerbund. His eyes were open and staring in his gray face.

The room appeared empty. But, Fraser pointed at the draperies covering the lone window. One of the panels moved slightly before it settled. He exchanged glances with Ray. They approached the window quietly from opposite sides. Ray automatically reached for his gun, before he remembered it was home, locked in his dresser drawer. He grabbed a fold of the drapery in tandem with Fraser, and mouthed silently "One – Two – Three!" They flung the draperies open.

Ilsa Lund crouched on the windowseat. She stared up at them, clutching a bloody knife in her right hand. Her mouth worked, but nothing came out. Ray's eyes shifted to her hand. She followed his gaze, then dropped the knife as if it were made of flame. It bounced once, then lay on the carpet next to the body.


	12. Chapter 12

**CHAPTER TWELVE**

Fraser moved first. He stepped around Ray, who seemed riveted to the floor, and returned to the door. He opened it a crack and peered out. The long hallway was empty. He closed the door, then propped a wooden chair under the knob, effectively barring entrance. He returned to the windowseat.

"Ray?"

At his voice, Ray roused himself from his paralysis. He looked at Fraser, then back at Ilsa. Her face was pale and strained as she stared at the man on the floor.

Ray took a deep breath. "Ilsa. Come out of there, please." He held out his hands.

She rose awkwardly, looking uncertain. But, she didn't look like she was going to keel over. Ray guided her to one of the overstuffed chairs, furthest from the body. She sat, twisting her hands together in her lap. He stood next to her, keeping a hand on her shoulder.

Fraser peered out the window. This room was at street level, though set back from the busy thoroughfare. No one looked at him from the street. He scanned nearby buildings. No gawking faces peered back. He pulled the draperies closed, before surveying the small room. It looked the same as when he had left it with Ilsa Lund, not so long ago. Except, of course, for the man on the floor. He knelt beside him.

The German diplomat lay full length on the rug. The eyes were fixed and staring in the slack face. Something about the position of the body struck Fraser as peculiar, but he set that thought aside for the moment. He felt at neck and wrist. The flesh was warm and supple, the blood uncongealed. But, there was no pulse, no breath.

It had to be said. "He's dead, Ray."

"Of course, he's dead," Ilsa cried. "Any fool can see that he's dead!"

"Take it easy, Ilsa," Ray said, patting her shoulder. He went to the water cooler and brought her back a paper cup.

"Oh, Emil," she said to the dead man. The sorrow in her voice was palpable.

Fraser and Ray exchanged glances. Ray pointed to himself, then to Ilsa. Fraser nodded, then rose and stepped carefully around the body. He went to the door, putting an ear against it. He heard nothing. He turned around, to see Ray kneel in front of Ilsa.

He kept his voice low, non-threatening, but loud enough for Fraser to hear. "Are you up to answering questions, Ilsa?"

"Y-yes, Ray."

He assessed her with a critical eye. She was pale, white to the lips. He took her hand. Her palm was wet. "Not dizzy? Or feel like you might throw up?"

She snatched her hand away. "I am not a china doll, Ray," she said, sharply. "I was in Rwanda last year."

Fraser stiffened. She caught the movement. Their gazes locked and he nodded once, solemnly and respectfully.

Ray had stilled at the image her words formed in his mind. "OK, you're not a china doll," he said, in apology. "Tell me what happened."

She ran both hands through her hair, then knotted them together in her lap. When she spoke, her voice was low, hesitant. "After ... after I left you on the dance floor ..." She squeezed his hand. "I am sorry I ran out. I just could not think – "

"Forget about it." He nodded for her to go on.

"Well, I went to the ladies room. I bumped into Emil there ... outside, I mean ... He insisted that he had to speak with me." She grimaced. "I was in no mood to talk, but he begged me. I was afraid that he would make another scene." As she spoke, her voice grew steadier. "I told him to come here, to this room, and wait for me. That I would meet him once I finished." She blew out an exasperated breath. "Of course, there was a line! No matter what country you are in, there is always a line in the ladies room! There's never a line in the mens room! Why is that?!"

Fraser spoke from his post at the door. "The anatomical structure of the male – "

"Benny!" Ray barked. "Ix-nay the biology lesson!"

"Sorry," he muttered.

"No, I'm sorry," Ilsa said, contritely. "Sore subject, but, not important now ..." She rubbed a hand across her brow. " Once I finished in the ladies room, I came here." She glanced at the body, then quickly back to Ray. "Emil was already here. Just like that."

"Not just like that, Ilsa," he prompted.

"Yes, he was," she insisted. "Oh." She looked sick. "You mean, the knife ... I - I pulled it out." She frowned. "That was a very stupid thing to do, was it not?"

Ray silently agreed, but said, "Why did you do it?"

"I don't know. It did not belong there." She shrugged one shoulder. "I remember thinking that if the knife was not there, then Emil ... would be alright ... " She made a wry face. "Obviously, I wasn't thinking very clearly."

"Was he still alive?"

She shook her head. "No. He didn't move ... there was a horrible noise when I ... he didn't move."

"What happened next?"

"Next?" She stared at him. "I heard someone at the door. I was frightened, afraid that whoever killed Emil had come back. So, I - I hid behind the curtains. Then, you found me." She hung her head. "I am a coward."

Ray patted her arm, "No, you were smart." He stood, then joined Fraser at the door.

"She didn't do it, Benny. I'd stake my life on it."

Fraser looked pained. "Ray, personal belief in Miss Lund's innocence doesn't change the fact that we are officers of the law and, as such – " He stopped, chagrined. "I'm sorry, Ray. It appears that I just blew off your cover."

"Blew my cover, Benny," Ray corrected, automatically. "Not 'blew off.'" He added, "And you didn't. I – uh – already told Ilsa I was a cop."

Fraser blinked. "Oh. Well ... uh ... I see," he said, although, in fact, he didn't see a 'tall. "As I was saying, we are law enforcement officers. We must report the body and ... Miss Lund's presence here." He looked uncomfortable. "Forgive me, Miss Lund, but you _were_ holding a bloody knife. And, the man had been violent with you earlier in the evening."

"I didn't kill him!" she cried. "He was my friend!"

"Calm down, Ilsa," Ray said. "We'll figure this out."

Fraser lowered his voice. "Ray, you know we have to report this."

Ray ran a hand through his hair. "I know. But, once we do, you know what'll happen. It'll be a circus. Case like this, with all these bigwigs ... we'll never get near it again. And I know we're on the right track, Benny. You do, too. We come to this shindig investigating two murders, and now there's another one. This is not a coincidence!"

"Perhaps, Ray. But regulations – "

"Gimme a minute. I have to think." To his surprise, Fraser instantly shut up. Ray took a couple of breaths and said, "OK. We'll report the body."

Fraser nodded, reaching for the chair propped under the doorknob. Ray stopped him. "But, not just yet."

"Ray," Fraser began. "We can't_ not_ report a body."

"We're_ not_ not reporting the body. We're just _delaying_ reporting the body." As Fraser opened his mouth to protest, Ray said, quickly, "What's the harm in a little delay? We've secured the crime scene. We can interview the witness." He saw something flicker in Fraser's eyes. "Unless, you think she's a suspect," he said, ignoring the squeak Ilsa emitted at the word. "Would you feel better if I arrested her, Benny?"

"You can't arrest Miss Lund," he said, mildly.

Ray grinned. "I knew it! You believe her, too!"

"Of course, I believe her, Ray. But, that's not why I said you can't – ooof! " His breath whooshed out of his lungs as Ilsa hugged him from behind.

"You believe me!"

"Miss Lund, please – " he wheezed.

She released him, then spun him to face her. The fire in her eyes was at odds with the pallor of her face. "My name is Ilsa! If you call me 'Miss Lund' once more, you ... you ... big red drulle ... I will ... well, I do not know what I will do! But, you will not like it!"

She was magnificent, Ray thought, like one of those flying Viking women in the opera.

"Drulle?" he asked.

"Swedish for oaf," Fraser explained. He rubbed an eyebrow with a thumb. "Uh ... Ilsa," he said, tentatively. "Whether Ray or I believe you is irrelevant, we have a duty – "

"It's not irrelevant," she insisted. "Not to me ... Benton."

Ray tried to look stern, and pointed at the chair. She tried, but failed, to look meek. Still, she followed his command and sat, tucking her feet up under her dress.

Fraser straightened his tunic before continuing. "Ray, my personal opinion as to ... Ilsa's ... innocence is not the reason why I said you can't arrest her."

"No? Why not then, Benny?"

"You can't arrest ... Ilsa ... because she has full diplomatic immunity. She cannot be arrested, detained, searched or seized in this country."

"Oh." The larger implications of that statement hit Ray like a ton of bricks. Half the guests at this party had diplomatic immunity. "Dammit!" When Ilsa flinched, he added, hastily, "I didn't mean you." He paused, thinking. "So, that means even if we reported the body_ right_ _now_, half this crowd couldn't be detained for questioning anyway."

Fraser frowned. "Well, yes, that's true," he conceded.

Ray was on a roll. "And, with the tight security around this affair, the security firm will know who was here. They're tracking every one coming in and going out, even if it's to the parking lot for a smoke. Reporting the body now or later won't change any of that."

"Y-yes, you're right," he acknowledged. "But, Ray, what would a delay accomplish?"

He blew out a breath. "I dunno, Benny. But, at least we'd keep control for a little while longer. With all those VIPs out there, plus the diplomatic angle, the feds are gonna jump in with both feet. The FBI means Agent Ford." He saw he scored a point there. That jerk had blown more than one case that Benny had been involved in.

He pressed his advantage. "The State Department, the German government, the mayor, the Army, Navy, and Marines ... who knows who else? It'll take at least forty eight hours to sort out the red tape before anyone really starts working on this. But, one thing I know for sure – we'll be out. O-U-T. And, we're the only ones up to speed at this point." He crossed his arms over his chest. "We need to investigate this before turning him," he nodded at the body, "and her," nodding at Ilsa, "over to _that._" He held his breath as he watched Fraser's face.

"How long, Ray?"

He looked at his watch. This shindig was scheduled to end at two am. "Till the end of the party, Benny. That's all. Then, we'll call Welsh." He added, "That is, if we can keep this under wraps even that long."

Fraser was silent for a long moment as Ray held his breath. Then, he nodded. "Alright, Ray."

Ray let out the breath. "OK, then." He smoothed his hair with both hands. "Time being of the essence then, one of us should interview the witness while the other examines the body." He frowned. "Dammit, I wish Mort were here. I don't know how much we can glean on our own."

"Forensics will be limited," Fraser agreed. "Other than the obvious, of course."

"The obvious?"

Fraser removed a tuning fork from his breast pocket. He flicked it with his finger, and held it up to his ear. He said, absently, "That Emil Strasser was a non-smoker who reeks of Gauloises cigarettes, recently handled duct tape, and was stabbed by a right-handed person between five feet ten and six feet four who was intimately known to him. Oh, and that he was seated on the near sofa, his killer on the opposite chair, when the attack occurred."

"Ri-ight," Ray said, slowly. "I'll take the witness."

"OK, Ray." He knelt by the body and flicked the tuning fork again until it thrummed.

Ray shook his head. He pulled out his notebook and turned his attention to the witness. She was staring at Fraser with her mouth open.

"Ilsa, I have to ask you some questions."

She shut her mouth with a snap. "I'll do my best to answer them, Ray."

At that moment, the doorknob rattled. "Benton!" A voice warbled, insistently, "Open up, darling! I know you're in there!"


	13. Chapter 13

**CHAPTER THIRTEEN**

The three of them froze, horror-struck. Fraser stared at the door. Ray stared at the body. Ilsa stared at both of them.

Tuppy Harrington rapped louder. "Open the door, dear. It's me, Tuppy." She sighed, dramatically. "Don't play hard to get, Benton. Answer me, darling."

Ilsa recovered first and sprang into action. She bounded to Fraser and grabbed his shoulder. "Quick! The window seat. Like before," she hissed, shoving him toward it. His face was as red as his tunic, and he refused to look in Ray's direction, as he folded himself into the small space. She swished the curtains in place, then rounded on his dumbstruck partner.

"Benton!" Tuppy wailed. "Let me in, darling!"

Snatching hold of his sleeve, Ilsa pulled Ray to the door. Tuppy was getting louder. Ray knew she was going to attract attention if she kept this up. Maybe, even one of the security guys. They had to shut her up. He threw a glance over his shoulder. From this vantage, the back of the sofa blocked his view of the body on the floor. Maybe, he could sidle out the door before she could get in, and get rid of her. He reached for the chair under the knob.

Ilsa jerked him around to face her. She whispered in his ear, "Open the door at my signal. Do not let her in all the way!" Then, she grabbed his ears and planted a big sloppy kiss on the corner of his mouth. He was so shocked, it was over before he registered it happening. She ruffled his hair, then tugged one end of his bow tie, undoing it. She yanked the front of his shirt out of his trousers. He goggled at her, about to bat her hands away if she went for his zipper when, finally, the penny dropped. He grinned at her. She grinned back. As he undid the top buttons of his shirt, he complained loudly to the door. "Hold your horses, lady! I'm coming!"

Ilsa dashed back to the sofa. She peeked over the back, giving Ray a big thumbs up as she rumpled her own hair. Taking a deep breath, he moved the chair out from under the knob. An instant later, Tuppy Harrington nearly fell through the door, catching herself on the jamb. Ray kept one arm across the opening, blocking her way; with the other, he kept the door firmly in place.

"Oh, it's you, Mr. Bridge," she said, disappointed. She was craning her neck, trying to see around him.

"What do you want, Mrs. Harrington?" he asked, impatiently. He tried to look dissolute. It wasn't difficult.

She looked down her nose, imperiously. "I'm looking for Benton. Someone said he came down this hall and he wasn't in the other rooms." She was doing her best to get past him, but Ray wasn't budging. "Are you alone, Mr. Bridge?"

"He's not here, Mrs. Harrington," Ray said, brusquely. "Now, if that's all – " He tried to push the door shut, but she stuck one high-heeled foot in the way.

"Really, Mr. Bridge," she began. "You're being quite rude. I know he's here."

Ray started to protest, when Ilsa cooed from the sofa, "Hello, Tuppy."

He looked over his shoulder to see the elegant Swedish diplomat leaning over the back of the closest sofa. Her hair was attractively mussed, her lipstick smeared, her eyes liquid with desire as she gazed at him. The bodice of her high-necked dress was unbuttoned nearly to her navel and hung partially open, revealing lush decolletage and a hint of lacy underthings. Ray gaped at her transformation.

So, did Tuppy. "Oh! Oh, my," she stammered, flicking her gaze between them, taking in the matching lipstick smears, rumpled hair and disarrayed clothes. "Oh, I see," she said, more firmly. Her smile was smug. "My mistake, Mr. Bridge."

"Tuppy," Ilsa pleaded. "May we count on your discretion?"

"Of course, dear." She put a red-tipped finger to her lips. "Mum's the word. Carry on, darlings," she said. She winked at Ray. With her frozen features, it was quite alarming. Then, she turned on her heel and was gone.

Ray shut the door and jammed the chair back under the knob. He let out an explosive breath. "That was too close."

Ilsa giggled, then slapped a hand to her mouth. She looked down at the body and back at Ray, flushing with shame.

Ray opened the curtains. "All clear, Benny," he reported, not without a drop of humor at the farcical situation. He was grateful for his own olive complexion when he saw Fraser's face. It was redder than Ilsa's. It got even redder when he glanced at her state of dishabille. He quickly looked away. Then, he unfolded himself and stood, smoothing his uniform as Ray tucked in his shirt.

Ilsa joined them, buttoning her gown. Her hair and face needed attention, but she gestured at Ray's face. "I am sorry, Ray," she said. "I had to use what was at hand." She pulled the silk handkerchief out of his breast pocket and used it to wipe the lipstick from his mouth.

"Don't apologize. It worked."

"Ilsa," Fraser said. "I'm afraid there's a problem with counting on Mrs. Harrington's discretion."

"What?"

"She has none."

Ray said, urgently, "All the more reason for us to get done what we need to do and get the hell out of this room."

Fraser nodded, and knelt next to the body. Ray moved Ilsa as far away as possible and took out his notebook. As he questioned her about Strasser's life and work, he glanced at Fraser from time to time out of the corner of his eye. When he scraped the soles of the dead guy's shoes onto his handkerchief, dipped his finger in the residue, and licked it, Ray shuddered and refused to look his way again. He would _never_ get used to that.

He accumulated a lot of factoids about Strasser, but it got interesting when he asked her about his love life. "Did he have a girlfriend?"

She shook her head.

"Boyfriend?"

"No, he is ... was ... not that way." She looked up at him with sad, clear eyes. "He ... loved me, Ray."

Ray had suspected as much, after the altercation in the hall. Still, he asked, "How do you know?"

She gave him a pitying look. "A woman always knows, Ray." She sighed. "But, as it happened, Emil told me."

Two years ago, he had opened his heart to her. Ilsa had been kind. She told him she loved him too, but as a friend. Ray winced, feeling another pang of sympathy for the murdered man. Been there, done that. After that, Emil had dropped the subject, but he had brought it up again three months ago. She had told him her feelings remained unchanged.

"That was in Casablanca. A few days before ... Victor died."

"Did Strasser ...uh ... know?" Ray asked, tactfully. He wasn't telling anyone, even Benny, her secret without her say-so.

"No."

"Him going for Fraser like that. He ever do that before?" She was shaking her head. "Lose his temper? Jealous rages?"

"No, never!" She was adamant. "He has always been the gentleman. That is why it was so shocking."

"But, he's got a drinking problem," Ray prompted. "That changes people."

She said, firmly, "Even when he drinks, Emil has always behaved in a civilized fashion. The problem I told you about with his government?" He nodded. "It had to do with neglect of his position, making mistakes, missing appointments, driving when he should not. There has been no ... brawling, no rages, jealous or otherwise." She shook her head. "No, Emil is ... was ... always so polite!"

"Polite waters run deep, Ilsa," Ray said, deliberately not looking at Fraser. "People can surprise you." The image of Benny running desperately for a train played in his head like a silent film clip all the way to the wow finish – a guy standing on a station platform with a comical look on his face, because he'd just shot his best friend in the back.

"I don't know, Ray," she said, wearily. "Nothing seems to surprise me anymore."

He moved on. "The last time I saw Strasser, he was with Ugarte and Renault," Ray mused aloud. "On the stage. You and Harrington stepped down and went over to Fraser. I didn't see Strasser again. Did you? I mean, before the ladies room?"

"No, I was with you on the dance floor."

"Benny?"

Fraser looked up from shining a penlight into Strasser's mouth. "I saw him leave the stage. Ugarte and Renault assisted him down the steps. He seemed quite ... overcome ... with emotion."

Ilsa piped up. "Emil was Victor's protégé. They were very close."

"Did you see him after that, Benny?"

"No, Ray." He coughed. "I'm afraid I was somewhat preoccupied. I did not see Mr. Strasser alive again."

Ray was mentally reviewing the timetable. "How long were you in the mens room?"

Fraser didn't meet his eyes, concentrating on his examination of the chest wound. "From 10:19 until 10:52, when I exited to meet you here."

Ilsa looked at him with concern. "Were you ill, Benton?"

"He was hiding," Ray said.

"I was not _hiding_, Ray." He harrumphed, and cleared his throat. "I was merely ... regrouping."

"Right. Sorry." Ray exchanged an amused glance with Ilsa.

Fraser was using his handkerchief to hold the knife up to the light. Ray recognized it as one of the hotel's. He had seen similar ones on the buffet tables with 'Waldorf-Astoria' stamped on the blade.

Ray rubbed his chin, squinting in thought. "OK. So, Strasser gets off the stage, say around 10:10 -10:15."

"10:12," Fraser corrected.

"Ilsa and I were dancing for a while. Then, she left the ballroom. I'd say that was around 10:35. Strasser confronts her at the ladies room right after. She tells him to meet her here. Ilsa, how long were you in the bathroom?"

"I don't know. Perhaps, ten minutes," she said, doubtfully. "There was a line."

"And, when you came out, he was gone?" She nodded. "Did you come straight here? No detours?"

"Yes, Ray."

"Did you see anybody in the hall?"

"No." She frowned. "Waiters and waitresses in passing, perhaps."

"What about Renault and Ugarte? They seemed to be keeping an eye on him, earlier."

"No." She squinted in thought. "I did not see Louis or Miguel after I left the stage. Walter and I came over to Benton, then Walter escorted him to the bar, and I slipped away to find you."

"Benny, what time did you come in here? You were right behind me."

"10:55. I came here directly."

"So, Strasser is unaccounted for between 10:35 and 10:55. And, if we believe Ilsa, he was already dead when she got here." As she made a noise, he shushed her. "We believe you, Ilsa. I'm just thinking out loud." He did the math. "Give her three to five minutes to see him, be shocked, pull out the knife and hide in the window seat ... Strasser was killed between 10:35 when Ilsa saw him at the ladies room and 10:50 when she found him." He whistled, softly. "Fifteen minutes. That's a narrow window of opportunity."

"Very narrow," Fraser agreed.

He looked at Ilsa. "Can you think of any reason someone would want to kill him?"

She shook her head. "Three months ago, I would have said no one. But, I suppose he could have angered someone while he was ... but, anyone who really knew him ... I can't imagine anyone who really knew Emil who wouldn't understand how much pain he is in." She looked sadly at the body. "Was in."

He gave her a moment before changing tack. "Do you know a young woman named Marta Gunther?"

Her face was blank. "Who?"

"German girl. A first-time courier, bringing the diplomatic bag up from Washington to the German Consulate here."

She shook her head. She gamely answered his next questions. She had met Inspector Thatcher once, and occasionally met Christina Havlek for a group luncheon, but did not consider herself a particular friend. Ray could see the wheels turning in her head, as she tried to connect the dots.

"Do you know of any connection between Emil Strasser and Marta Gunther?"

"None. Other than the obvious, that she was German and would deliver the pouch to the Consulate here. Emil never mentioned her."

"What about Thatcher and Strasser?"

She shook her head.

"Strasser and Christina Havlek?"

"_Emil_ and Christina, no." She opened her mouth, seemed about to say something, then shut it again.

"Ilsa?"

"I don't like to gossip, Ray."

Ray rolled his eyes. "It's not gossip. It's a murder investigation." He looked seriously at her. "You can never tell what might turn out to be important." He added, "I promise to keep it confidential."

"I think _Miguel _and Christina were ... involved."

"Involved?"

"About a month ago, I saw them at the Ambassador Hotel. I was there for a lunch meeting and went to the lobby to make a phone call. I saw Christina and Miguel come out of the elevator."

"What did they do?"

"Nothing," she said. "They walked out of the building. But, not together. He stopped to buy a newspaper in the lobby and she went on without him." She paused. "It was most likely my imagination. They were not even looking at each other. But, I had an impression that they had just been ... together ... upstairs." She blew out a breath. "That sounds ridiculous when I say it aloud. How could I possibly know that?"

"Sometimes, our brains connect things we aren't even aware that we've seen. It's called 'suboptimal reasoning.'"

"Subliminal," Fraser corrected, automatically. He added, "Ilsa is an extremely perceptive individual, Ray. I would credit her observations, barring proof to the contrary."

"Thank you, Benton."

"Anything else you can tell me about them?" Ray asked.

"I remember thinking that she looked so ... happy," she said, wistfully. "Why are you asking about those women, Ray?"

He exchanged glances with Fraser, who nodded in agreement. Ray gave her a quick summary of their investigation. Her eyes grew wide as saucers. She was silent for a long moment, processing the information. "I imagine no one would tell you what was in the diplomatic pouches."

"Yeah," Ray said, sourly. "Not even my best friend."

"Now, Ray," Fraser said, guiltily. "We've been over that."

"Yeah, yeah," he said, waving a dismissive hand.

"Benton is right, Ray," Ilsa said, solemnly. "One cannot disclose the contents of a diplomatic pouch to an unauthorized person. As much as one might wish to. It would be unthinkable."

"Have you had to do that? Carry the diplomatic pouch, I mean?"

"Frequently."

He told her about Thatcher's deductions about the diplomatic pouches. She said, thoughtfully. "Her reasoning is sound. Especially, about the Hungarian pouch. I know that bearer bonds are often transported in this fashion. And, Christina had just returned from Hong Kong." At Ray's blank look, she explained, "Hong Kong bearer bonds are a very sound investment for a government. Miguel recommends them highly."

He remembered what Thatcher had told him on the phone. "That's right. He's the financial expert."

"Miguel is _the _authority on them."

"Bearer bonds ... that's like cash, right?"

"Yes. The ownership is not registered. Whoever possesses them _is_ the owner. They cannot be rescinded, not even questioned."

"Huh." Ray frowned, thinking of the nasty uses to which such things could be put. "Anything else you can think of?"

She shook her head, slowly. "But, Ray," she began, giving him a funny look.

"Yeah?"

"Are you saying that ... that you and Benton came here tonight ... because ... because of a ... cufflink?" She sounded incredulous.

"Fraser had to come because it's his job. But yeah," he said, defensively. "That's why I'm here. It's all we had to go on." He looked at the body. "Until now. If this is a coincidence, I'll eat Fraser's hat."

Fraser looked startled. Ray got to his feet and joined him. "Find anything? I mean, other than the obvious?"

"Not much," he admitted. "The bandage is covering what appears to be a shaving cut. Not a scratch or scrape from a fingernail."

"He was probably shaky with a razor," Ray pointed out. "What else, Benny?"

"The soles of his shoes were damp. Water but not, I think, drinking water." He looked embarrassed. "There is a faint chemical odor. I am having difficulty identifying it. There are conflicting notes and it's dissipating rapidly." He sighed. "I wish Diefenbaker were here."

"Me, too. But we couldn't get him past security. Not without pulling rank and blowing the lid off this."

"Who is Diefenbaker?" Ilsa asked. "A police officer?"

"My wolf," Fraser said.

"Oh." She looked at Ray, who confirmed that she had heard correctly.

He frowned in thought. "There's a pool up on the roof, Benny. It's open all year."

"Perhaps, Ray," he said, doubtfully. "It could be chlorine but ..." He shrugged. "I'm sorry I can't be more specific."

Ray scratched his head. "I don't see how knowing where his shoes have been tells us anything about who stuck a knife in him, Benny."

"Neither do I, Ray. It is curious, however. That's all I have to report." He stood, stepped back from the body and started sketching the crime scene in his notebook. His hand moved rapidly over the page. Then, he stopped what he was doing, covered his left eye with one hand, and cocked his head.

Watching him, Ilsa murmured, "Cover his face, mine eyes dazzle, he died young."

"We can't, Ilsa," Ray said, apologetically.

She looked up, startled. Apparently, she hadn't realized she had spoken aloud.

"It's a line from _The Duchess of Malfi_, by John Webster, Ray," Fraser said, absently. "Ferdinand speaks it over the body of his dead sister, the Duchess. Actually, the quote is 'Cover _her _face. Mine eyes dazzle ... She ... '" He stopped, squinted, then covered his right eye. He cocked his head the other way.

"Benny? Something wrong with your eyes?"

Fraser didn't answer. "Ilsa," he said, "this is very important. I want you to think carefully before you answer."

"Yes?"

"Other than removing the knife, did you touch the body?"

She closed her eyes, obviously replaying her actions in her head. "No. I only touched the knife."

"You're sure?"

"Yes, I told you," she said, her voice strained. "I did not touch him. I - I couldn't."

"Thank you." Fraser took a breath. "Ray, does anything strike you as ... unusual ... about the body?"

"You mean, besides, that it's dead?"

"Yes."

Ray moved back to stand next to Fraser. He assumed the position, cocking his head and covering one eye. "He looks ... unnatural."

"He's dead!" Ilsa cried. "Of course, he looks unnatural!"

"That's not what I meant," Ray said, apologetically. "There's something ..."

He had seen more than his share of bodies, most of them sudden violent deaths. This man, however, did not lay crumpled or asprawl in the loose-limbed abandon of the recently dead. There was a stately formality to the corpse itself. It was more than the black tie, dinner jacket and cummerbund.

The head was turned to the left, the chin lifted. The right arm crossed over his chest and extended upward in a straight line, at a 45 degree angle from the torso. Almost, Ray thought uncharitably, like a Nazi salute. Likewise, the left arm was straight at the elbow, resting at a 45 degree angle from the torso, but at a downward angle. The legs were ramrod straight. He looked stiff, but it was too soon for rigor to have set in.

Fraser asked Ilsa, "Did Mr. Strasser serve in the military?"

"Yes, when he was very young."

"Which branch?"

"The navy."

Fraser flipped to a fresh page in his notebook. He sketched quickly, just a few lines. It was the body, rendered in a minimalist style, a little more than a stick figure. He showed it to Ray, who confirmed its accuracy. As did Ilsa. She exchanged looks with Ray, then both looked at Fraser.

"Benny, what?!"

"I think the body has been ... arranged."

Ray frowned. "Arranged? By the killer?"

"By the victim," he said. "Strasser knew he was dying. He had a minute or two before he lost consciousness."

"To do what?"

"To leave a clue."

"You mean like Marta with the cuff link?"

He nodded. "Like her, Mr. Strasser showed incredible presence of mind and used the only tool he had available." He looked down. "In this instance, his own body."

"How?"

Instead of answering, he snapped his heels together, and held his arms out stiffly in a pose.

"Are they the same, Ray?"

Ray flicked his glance between Fraser and Strasser. "Yeah. What?!"

"In semaphore, this," he said, waving his arms, then resuming the position, "is an 'X,' Ray."

"X-ray? There's a semaphore signal for that?"

"No, the letter 'X', Ray."

"Right, X-Ray!" he repeated. "Alpha, Bravo, Foxtrot, Tango ... that X-ray?"

"No, the_ letter_ 'X,' Ray," Fraser repeated, then frowned. "Just the letter 'X.'" He waited a beat. "Ray." He still held the pose. Ray compared him to the body. Yep, the posture was the same. Fraser stood down.

"X," Ray repeated. He rubbed his chin. "Xavier ... Xander ... Xena ... X-Men ... " He

paused, having exhausted his repertoire of things that began with X. "Ring any bells for you, Benny?" Fraser shook his head. "What about you, Ilsa?"

"No."

"One letter," Ray said, frustrated. "What the hell are we supposed to do with that?" He squinted in thought. "Was there a xylophone player in the band?"

Ilsa and Fraser shook their heads in tandem, as if they were puppets on strings. Ray looked at the body and the sketch, then gestured to Fraser to assume the position again. He obliged. Ray squinted one eye shut, flicking his gaze between Fraser and Emil. "In semaphore, is the head supposed to be turned like that?"

"No, Ray," Fraser said, slowly. "The signalman looks straight ahead." He looked down at Strasser. "But, in death, the muscles would become flaccid. Perhaps, his head slumped – "

"X!" Ray whooped, cutting him off. "X! X!"

Fraser and Ilsa stared at him without comprehension.

"X marks the spot!" He followed the dead man's gaze which followed the line of the right arm. Both pointed at the left end of the sofa. "Look where he's looking!"

Ilsa tried to join the search. Ray pointed at the chair. "Be a good witness and go sit down. This is police business."

She stayed put, looking stubborn. Fraser said, "Please, Ilsa. There are issues of evidence gathering and chain of custody that must be followed, or we risk a killer going free on a technicality of the law."

"Oh," she said, and retreated to the chair, though she craned her neck to watch.

They went over the sofa, carefully and thoroughly. Then, Ray saw it. Wedged down between the arm and the cushion on the side Strasser had been sitting on when he was stabbed was the corner of a white piece of paper. He gripped the edges with his fingertips only. He worked at pulling it out very slowly.

"Did Emil put that there?" Ilsa asked.

"Highly probable," Fraser said. "I searched that sofa looking for your handbag. It wasn't there, then."

Ray had extracted the piece of paper. It was stiff and glossy, folded in half. Using only the tips of his fingers on the edges, he unfolded it. Ilsa and Fraser crowded close to look.

It was a color photograph. A Polaroid of a gaunt, bearded man, dressed in a faded blue denim shirt. His arms were bound to his sides by several layers of silver duct tape. He was seated. A newspaper lay face up in front of him, taking up most of the surface of a small metal table. Ray recognized it as the front page of today's Chicago Sun-Times. He had read those same headlines at breakfast this morning. A flash was used in taking the picture, slightly overexposing the foreground. Ray could make out a large wooden packing crate – a big one with colorful labels on it – behind the seated man. Beyond that was shadowed and indistinct.

Ray had seen this type of picture before. It was a 'proof of life.' A standard ploy to prove to distraught loved ones that a kidnap victim was still alive. But, this victim was an unwilling photographic subject. His expression and body language spoke of non-cooperation, even defiance. He was being forced to face the camera by someone standing behind him. The photographer had been careful. All Ray could see of that person were the hands. The fingers of one were twisted in the captive's long gray hair. The other dug into his bearded jaw and held him still.

Ray felt movement beside him and looked up from the image.

Ilsa, white as a sheet, swayed. "V-vic ...v -victor – "

The photograph fluttered to the carpet as Ray lunged for her.


	14. Chapter 14

**CHAPTER FOURTEEN**

They caught Ilsa before she passed out completely and deposited her in the nearest chair. Ray pushed her head down between her knees and knelt in front of her.

"Deep breaths, Ilsa," he ordered, breathing along with her in encouragement.

Fraser retrieved the Polaroid from the floor. He squinted at the haggard face of the captive. "Ray," he croaked. "Ray!"

He looked up from his ministrations to see Fraser looking rattled. Well, rattled for him which, in turn, positively unnerved Ray.

Fraser swallowed. "I ... I think ... it _is _Victor Laszlo," he said, hoarsely. He knelt beside Ray and showed him the picture.

He peered at the photo. "No, it's not. It can't ..." he began. Then, something clicked in his brain and he saw that it was. He and Fraser stared at each other in shock.

"Of course, it's Victor," Ilsa said, in a strangled voice. She sat up, still pale, but not the deathly chalk-white of someone in a swoon. "I know my own husband!"

"Husband?" Fraser echoed.

"Yes," she whispered, her clear blue eyes grabbing and holding him in thrall once more.

He reached to brush a stray lock of hair away from those remarkable eyes. "Not a laughing matter a 'tall," he said, tenderly.

At that, her face crumpled and she dissolved into tears.

Ray shot him a disgusted look. "Jeez, Benny! What the hell is wrong with you! This is no joke!"

Fraser hastily backed away. "Ray, perhaps you should ... er ... do something." He made a vague gesture at Ilsa and got to his feet, taking the photo with him. Under the stronger light of a lamp on a side table, he studied the photograph, darting a glance at the weeping woman from time to time.

Ray held her tight. The storm was intense, but brief, lasting no more than a minute or two. When she pulled away, her face was wet, but she was once more under control.

He wiped her face with his father's handkerchief, then handed it to her so she could blow her nose. She did so loudly and copiously, making a face.

"Perhaps, I am a little bit the china doll," she said, in a watery voice.

He smiled, gently. "You're entitled."

"Did you know that Victor ..." she stopped, biting her lip. "Did you know he was alive? Is that why you are here tonight, under the covers?"

"Undercover," Ray corrected, with a ghost of a smile. "No, we didn't know. I told you we were investigating the murders. Marta and Christina."

She looked up at him, her confusion evident. "What does it all mean, Ray?"

Hell, if I know, Ray thought. But, he said, "It means Victor's alive." He grasped her shoulders. "It's good news, Ilsa." He realized that he meant it, even if Ilsa was no longer a widow, but someone else's wife. "Right, Benny?"

"Right, Ray." Fraser said, gamely. But, Ray heard the unspoken coda, _if we can find him in time. _He was peering at the photo intently, tilting the shade from the lamp to give him more light.

"Ilsa?"

Ray looked up, sharply. Benny was good at covering it, but Ray knew him too well not to hear the excitement in his voice. "Did Louis Renault attend the Diplomacy Ball last year?"

"What does that have to do with –?"

"Please, Ilsa," he interrupted. "Was he here last year?"

"Yes, we all were. Louis, Miguel, Emil, Victor and me. Why?"

"Benny?"

"Look at the hands," he said, handing him the Polaroid.

Ray stared at it. "I'm guessing Louis doesn't have a cat," he managed, as he showed Ilsa the long, ugly scratch visible on the left hand of the man forcing Victor to face the camera. The scratch Marta Gunther gave Louis Renault when she snatched the cufflink from his sleeve.

She stared at the picture, open-mouthed, then back at them in stunned comprehension.

"Ilsa," Fraser said. "The driver of Victor's car. In Casablanca. Did he smoke?"

She gaped at the non sequitur, still trying to absorb that her husband was alive and his friend and colleague had kidnaped him and was holding him prisoner. "What?"

Fraser repeated the question. She blinked. "Y-yes. Heavily. Victor's clothes would reek of smoke." She was staring at Fraser. So was Ray. "A v-very strong brand. I forget the name. Quite popular in Morocco."

"Gauloises?"

"I think so. Yes." She glanced at Ray and saw he was as mystified as she. She looked at Fraser suspiciously, as if she expected him to pull a rabbit out of his ass, next.

He did. "Was his name, perhaps, Karim?"

Her astonished expression was answer enough. But, for the record, she managed, "Yes, Benton. His name was Karim Jabbar."

Ray frowned. "Benny, what the hell?"

"Victor Laszlo was kidnaped three months ago by Louis Renault, Emil Strasser, Miguel Ugarte, and his driver, Karim Jabbar," Fraser said, grimly. "They covered up the abduction by blowing up the car." His brow wrinkled in thought. "I suspect they held him in Casablanca until recently. But, they brought him to Chicago by train on Wednesday, hidden in a shipping crate falsely marked as a diplomatic pouch, to extort a ransom from Walter Harrington tonight –"

He stopped talking because Ilsa was on her feet and racing to the door. She had shoved the wooden chair away before they caught her.

"Let me go!" she snarled. "They know where Victor is!"

"Ilsa! This won't help him!" Ray pleaded. It was like wrestling a wildcat. It was taking both of them to hold her without hurting her. Ilsa had no such compunction and had just landed a vicious kick on Ray's shin when Fraser let go and stood back.

"Benny!"

Fraser took up a stance between the struggling pair and the door. "Let her go, Ray."

"What!"

"If Ilsa won't listen to us, we can't stop her," he said, quietly. "Let her go."

Ray hesitated, then released his grip. She looked warily at Fraser and gave him a wide berth. As she passed him, he said, softly, "My father told me that the one thing you never get in life is a second chance."

She stopped, her hand on the knob.

"He was wrong, Ilsa." His voice rang with quiet conviction. "You have been given that second chance. Don't waste it."

"That's ... that's what Emil said to me," she whispered.

"What?" Ray asked. "When?"

"Outside the ladies room."

"What were his exact words?" Fraser urged.

She closed her eyes and cast her mind back. "He said, 'Ilsa, you must listen to me. I have a second chance now. We have a second chance! You must listen!'" She opened her eyes. "I thought he meant me. That I had to give him a second chance to love me." She shook her head, angrily. "He was talking about Victor." She dropped her hand, an agonized look in her eyes. "If only I had listened ..."

"Please, Ilsa. Listen to _me_, now," Fraser urged. "If you confront Renault and Ugarte ... if you let them know that you know ... Victor will die."

She rounded on him. "How can you say that? You don't know – "

But Ray did know. Call it a hunch, cop-ly intuition, subliminal reasoning, whatever. But he knew without a doubt that Victor Laszlo and his formerly dead driver were together, here in Chicago.

"Because Karim will kill him if the plan goes to pot," Ray said. He shared a grim look with Fraser. "Why not? Everybody thinks he's dead already."

"Yes, Ray."

Ray looked down at the dead man on the floor. "Strasser balked. At the end." Christ, in spite of everything, he still felt sorry for the guy.

"Yes," Fraser said, then to Ilsa. "Perhaps, because of the guilt that has been gnawing at him all these months. Perhaps, he panicked when he saw you with me, a police officer." He added, very gently. "Or, perhaps ... because he loved you, Ilsa."

"No! Th-that is not love!" Her face twisted with disgust. "Love cannot be so ... so ... perverse!"

"Sometimes," Fraser murmured, looking down at the body. "Sometimes, you can love someone so much, you are willing to do almost anything. Even ... even if it destroys you." The look of self-loathing on his face was fleeting, but Ray caught it. "The power of that kind of love is ... frightening." He didn't look up as Ray gripped his shoulder, but he didn't pull away.

Ray went to Ilsa. He held out his hand.

She took it. They moved away from the door. "What do we do now?"

"The FBI has jurisdiction here," Ray said, reluctantly. "But ..."

Fraser finished, with a little moue of distaste. "That means Agent Ford."

Ray muttered to Ilsa, "Ford couldn't find his own ass with both hands."

Fraser agreed with Ray's sentiment, if not his vernacular. "Regardless of the relative merit of a particular agent, _any_ official activity by _any_ law enforcement entity risks tipping off the perpetrators. They are on alert now, worrying that Strasser's body will be discovered and the alarm sounded before their plan comes to fruition." He gestured at the body. "This was a reaction to Strasser's change of heart. A bold move, but a desperate one. Not a part of the original plan."

"What is their plan?" she asked.

"I can't be sure," Fraser admitted. " But, logically, Walter Harrington is the target of the extortion." He added, "He's an old friend of the victim and a billionaire. With the help of a computer, he can transfer money anywhere in the world in seconds. Perhaps," he said, slowly, "with Miguel Ugarte's help."

"Would Harrington pay a ransom for Victor?" Ray asked Ilsa.

"Without hesitation," she said, firmly. She looked back and forth between them. "What you said before, Ray. About you two being 'up to speed' ... that is even more true now, yes?"

Ray looked at Fraser, before replying. "We think so, Ilsa." He didn't tell her that failure to report the kidnaping to the FBI or his superiors was putting both his and Fraser's careers in jeopardy. What was a job compared to her husband's life?

"Then, I want you. Both of you," she said, firmly. "I trust you." She took a deep cleansing breath and looked expectantly at them.

Fraser took the Polaroid in hand. "Walter Harrington will likely demand proof that Victor Laszlo is alive. More than a photo, I would think. He has the reputation as an astute, even shrewd businessman."

"Walter is no fool," Ilsa confirmed. She frowned. "What kind of proof?" Her hands flew to the sides of her head. "You do not mean ... an ear?"

Fraser shot her a startled look.

"A phone call," Ray said, quickly. "For Victor to answer questions about stuff only he and Harrington would know." He paused. "Maybe that gives us some time." He hooked a thumb at Fraser. "Two cops, two suspects," he mused. "If we do our jobs right, maybe we can find out where they're holding him before the ransom is paid. They have to keep Victor alive that long, at least." He paused, hating to say it but it had to be said. "Unless, the deal went down while we've been in here."

Ilsa swallowed hard, but nodded. "What can I do?'

Ray looked at her in appraisal. Of course, she was shaken. Who wouldn't be, under the circumstances? But, she was smart, capable, a quick study, and definitely _not_ a china doll. A good actress, to boot. She _was _the one that had fooled Tuppy. "That depends. How's your game face?"

"My what?"

Fraser said, helpfully, "Ray is employing a term used in poker, to describe a facial expression one adopts to conceal one's emotions. Perhaps, in this instance, the term 'diplomat face' would be more appropriate."

She drew herself up to her full height and assumed a bland, pleasant expression. Then, she smiled. A Mona Lisa smile. "Now, tell me, what is my job?"

Ray grinned at her. "Pest control." They took the next five minutes to quickly concoct a plan of their own.


	15. Chapter 15

**CHAPTER FIFTEEN**

Ray poked his head out the door of the Chippewa Room. The long hallway was empty. He looked up ahead, where it connected with the foyer outside the ballroom. No one peered back at him. He slid out. "Coast is clear," he muttered, over his shoulder.

Ilsa stepped out, followed by Fraser. He pulled the door shut behind him, wishing in vain that he could have locked it. But, that was impossible. Even if there was a lock, to use it would have been inadvisable. They could not draw any additional attention to this room.

The small conference room was as neat and tidy as they could make it. Emil Strasser was now occupying the windowseat, the draperies carefully arranged to conceal him from casual discovery, both inside and out. Unless someone actually opened the drapes, he should keep for awhile. It wouldn't fool the bad guys, Ray had pointed out. But, they were unlikely to return to the scene of the crime.

Spoiling said crime scene unsettled both Ray and Fraser. But, the priority had shifted from catching and convicting a murderer to saving a kidnap victim. Strasser had given them a crucial leg up with the Polaroid. Ugarte and Renault didn't know that anyone knew about the plot. That had to have given them some kind of advantage worth preserving. The longer the body went undiscovered, the better Victor Lazlo's chances were.

Ray had expected he'd have to do some fast talking, but Fraser had said only two words in response to his suggestion to stash the dead guy in the windowseat.

"Needs must," he'd intoned, before bending and picking up Strasser's feet.

Now, Ray tucked Ilsa's arm in his. "OK, here we go. Nice and easy," he said, nervously. They strolled down the long hall. Fraser gave them a ten pace head start, then followed.

"Remember," Ray told her. "If anyone asks, we were in the Potawatomee Room."

"I cannot pronounce that!"

"S'alright. Nobody can."

They had reached the end of the hall where it joined with the foyer. Fraser held back until Ray gave him a thumbs up behind his back. They proceeded. There were a smattering of guests milling about, the ubiquitous line at the ladies room, and the waitstaff bustling to and fro with trays. No one paid any attention to them. A quick scan showed no Ugarte, no Renault, and, thank heaven, no Mrs. Harrington.

Ray and Ilsa wended their way through the pockets of people, stopping just inside the entrance of the ballroom. The orchestra was on break, leaving the dance floor bereft of dancers. Still, four hundred guests clustered here and there. At the far end of the room, the piano player was tickling the ivories and singing. Something about knocking on wood. Hear, hear, Ray thought. They could use all the luck they could get.

He spotted Miguel Ugarte near one of the buffet tables, small plate in hand. He was listening politely as a short animated man expounded. Ray thought he was one of the Peruvians. Or, Bolivian. One of those little South America countries, anyway. Beyond him, Renault was holding court, six or seven of the younger men and women attending.

Fraser peered between their shoulders. "There she is. By the bandstand."

Tuppy Harrington, her back to them, was in a small group listening to the piano player. As he sang the refrain, they laughingly rapped their heads with their knuckles. Ray smiled, despite his anxiety.

"OK, she hasn't spotted us yet," Ray muttered. He ran several possible scenarios through his head before selecting one. "Benny, you go to the bar. Ilsa and I will run interference."

Fraser leaned in. "What are you going to do, Ray?" They had mapped the bare bones of a strategy in the Chippewa Room. There had been little time to decide tactics. At this point, they were "winging it."

"You'll see," he said, impatiently. "The far end. Order a drink."

He hesitated, "You won't do anything untoward ...?"

"Benton!" Ilsa scolded. "Go!"

"Alright, alright." He sidled around them and wove his way through the partygoers.

As soon as he stepped into the ballroom, Tuppy whirled, zeroing in on Fraser with unnerving accuracy. As if she had radar. Ray and Ilsa moved. Arm in arm, they followed in Fraser's wake. Heads turned their way. At first, Ray thought it was Benny that had attracted the attention. But, then one woman favored Ray with a knowing smile; another, a frank once-over; a third licked her lips, provocatively. Likewise, some of the men they passed were nodding at him in approval. The scenario was repeated in various combinations and permutations.

Ilsa murmured, "It would appear that Tuppy's discretion did not last long."

Ray snorted. "Thirty seconds, tops." He ran a finger under his suddenly tight collar. It was like running a gauntlet. He stopped Ilsa midway down the length of the bar. Fraser kept going, tucking himself in the crowd at the very end. He gave Ray a sidewise glance, laying a finger alongside his nose.

Ray returned the gesture.

The bait was in place.

"OK." He hurriedly whispered in Ilsa's ear. "Tuppy's coming this way. I'll get us some drinks. Spill yours on her dress when she passes."

Her eyes widened. "You do realize she is wearing Versace?"

"Can't be helped," he said, stoically. He smoothed the lapel of his Armani tux in unconscious sympathy. "Besides, she's married to a billionaire."

She nodded, and released his arm. Ray started worming his way through the six-deep crush in front of the bar.

He glanced to his left to see Tuppy was across the dance floor, on a bee line for the red tunic. He was close enough now to see the bartenders were bustling, pouring and mixing drinks with professional panache. With the orchestra on break, everyone was thirsty. Ray moved steadily forward, the advantage of growing up Vecchio. The diplomats didn't stand a chance. He kept looking to his left. Every time he did, Tuppy was closer than he thought she ought to be. The theme music to _Jaws_ was playing in his head when he finally got close enough to the front of the line to shout his order.

"Two merlots!"

The harried bartender pulled wineglasses from the rack over his head. He poured from a nearly empty bottle, half filling one glass. Then, with deft movements, he used a corkscrew on a fresh bottle. "C'mon, c'mon," Ray muttered, under his breath. Finally, the bartender handed the drinks across the bar. Ray held the glasses high as he dodged and weaved back through the throng. He was still a few paces from Ilsa, when Tuppy arrived.

Ilsa moved to meet him, getting in the older woman's way. She veered to go around. Ilsa grabbed her glass from Ray. She pretended to stumble, clutching Ray's shoulder to keep from falling. She kept hold of the wineglass. But the contents went flying.

Tuppy watched, shocked and speechless, as ruby red liquid dripped into her cleavage, and down her ample bosom, staining the cream-colored gown.

Ray was impressed. The pratfall had looked completely innocent. In the next moment, it turned to slapstick as Ilsa, brandishing her handkerchief and murmuring apologies, took a step toward Tuppy. Her foot slipped in the puddle of wine, sliding out from under her. She pinwheeled her arms, smacking Ray full in the face as he lunged for her. He too floundered on the wet floor, but managed to keep them both upright. But, the contents of his wineglass were jettisoned into Tuppy's permanently surprised face.

An appalled hush descended. For a moment, the only sound was the drip-drip-drip of the winedrops on the polished floor. Like the tick-tick-tock of the stately clock, Ray thought, nonsensically. Then, there was nothing stately about Tuppy Harrington as she gasped and spluttered. She sprayed droplets of red wine everywhere, like a wet dog shaking its coat dry. Everyone was staring at the spectacle, frozen in place or backing out of harm's way.

Well, almost everyone. Fraser, his innate chivalry triggered by a woman in distress, started toward her. Ray watched in dismay as he took a step ... two ... three. Then, he stopped in mid-stride.

But, Tuppy had spotted the movement of the red tunic. "Benton!" she wailed.

Fraser's eyes locked with hers. Then, he turned his back and returned to his place at the bar.

Her expression didn't change – it couldn't, with all that surgery – but Ray could see her quivering with hurt and humiliation. Someone tittered nervously. But, this was a crowd of professional diplomats and no one laughed out loud. The entire episode had taken less than ten seconds, but seemed like an eternity.

Then, everybody started talking at once. People rushed to Tuppy's side, surrounding her. Ilsa got there first. "I am sorry! Oh, Tuppy! I am so sorry!" She mopped ineffectually at the stained dress with her tiny handkerchief.

Tuppy snatched it from her and wiped her stinging eyes, smearing her makeup. The effect was grotesque. She looked like a clown that had been left out in the rain.

"Are you alright, Mrs. Harrington?" Ray asked, guiltily offering up his father's handkerchief.

She didn't answer, but took the piece of silk and blotted her decolletage before handing it back to him.

"Come. Let's go to the ladies room," Ilsa said, kindly.

Tuppy drew a deep breath. She brushed wet hair off her face, and straightened, gathering the shreds of her dignity about her. She warbled, "No, thank you, Ilsa. Walter and I have the penthouse upstairs – "

A short woman with three chins elbowed Ilsa aside and took charge. She put her arm around Tuppy's shoulder, and looked daggers at the gawkers, who hastily found somewhere else to put their eyes. Together, she and Tuppy picked their way carefully around the puddle of wine.

Music drifted from the bandstand. The bartenders hustled to fill orders. Excitement over, people returned to their drinks and conversations, but not before some cast a few hard looks at Fraser's back.

Ray and Ilsa watched Tuppy retreat from the field.

"We'll make it up to her," he said, guiltily. Then, added, "It sounds like she'll be out of commission a while. But, Ilsa, you gotta keep her away from Fraser."

"I don't think that will be a problem any longer, Ray," she murmured, with a glance at the Mountie. But, she squeezed his arm and caught up to Tuppy and her friend.

A waiter arrived with mop and bucket and Ray got out of his way. He joined Fraser at the bar where he huddled over a glass of ginger ale. Ray kept his voice low.

"That was an accident, Benny," he said, defensively.

Fraser just looked at him.

Ray had the grace to look abashed. "I meant the second glass. Ilsa slipped."

"That's not important now, Ray." He took a swallow. "What is important is Victor Laszlo."

"Right."

He bowed his head, murmuring. "Miguel Ugarte is sitting alone at the Spanish Consul's table."

Ray looked casually over his shoulder. "Yeah, I see him."

"And," he added, keeping his head down. "Louis Renault is at the buffet tables. He was watching from the end of the bar until a few moments ago."

"Maybe, I should take Renault," Ray ventured, deliberately not looking toward the buffet.

Fraser shook his head. "No. I will." His tone brooked no argument. He knocked back the ginger ale, set the empty glass down on the bar, and stood.

"Benny, you don't have to – " He stopped, not sure what he was trying to say.

"We all have our parts to play." Fraser turned back. "Don't worry, Ray," he said, a wry quirk lifting one corner of his mouth. "Offering myself to Louis Renault is not my idea of penance."

Ray watched him walk away. He shook his head. Then, he smoothed his lapels and strode to the Spanish Consul's table.


	16. Chapter 16

**CHAPTER SIXTEEN**

The buffet tables were a cornucopia of culinary delights, artistically presented and attractively arranged. The hotel had made a genuine effort at inclusiveness in representing each consulates's home cuisine, which the waitstaff replaced and replenished in a constant stream of activity. The trademark emblem of the Diplomacy Ball – the clasped hands superimposed over a globe – was carved in ice as a centerpiece. The artist had added a little lucite airplane which circled the globe on a wire loop, in honor of the Harringtons' around-the-world adventure.

Fraser admired the workmanship with a practiced eye. It was ingeniously done. Ice sculpting was revered in Canada. Although chainsaws and power drills were the tools of choice these days, the Inuit still practiced the art in the old way, with chisel and knife. He himself had been taught the rudiments by Innussiq's Uncle Nannouk, considered by many to be the Michelangelo of the North.

Louis Renault, plate in hand, stood to one side, in conversation with the Swiss consul and her husband. Fraser passed them with a polite nod, and picked up a plate. He did not feel particularly hungry, but it had been a long time since lunch at the Vecchios. He perused the selection of seafood. Among the plethora of dishes were caviar, shrimp cocktail, ceviche, sushi, smoked trout, salmon mousse, and plump oysters on the half-shell. He helped himself to the trout, and spooned sour cream and capers on top.

"I recommend the oysters," said a voice behind him, the tone warm and familiar. "Unless, you prefer snails." Fraser turned to see Louis Renault. "I myself like both snails_ and_ oysters," he added.

"I do prefer snails," he acknowledged. "_Cepaea Borealis, _in particular_."_

Renault blinked. "Pardon?"

"The northern tree snail. It's native to the Yukon," he said, helpfully. "Below the tree-line, of course."

"Of course," Renault echoed.

"Oysters are not generally available where I come from," Fraser continued. "Except mountain oysters." He added mousse to his plate. "And, of course, those aren't oysters a'tall."

"No?"

"No, actually they're – " He stopped.

"They're what?" Renault prompted.

"They're ... not on the buffet," he said, hastily, before circling back to a subject other than testicles. "Still, while snails are delicious, the eating of them is often fraught with peril." He gestured at the specialty tongs and forks that accompanied the small shells brimming with melted butter, garlic and herbs. "Especially, when one is in uniform."

"Indeed," Renault said, with mock solemnity. "Caution is warranted, but the taste ... ah, the taste is worth any risk."

Fraser helped himself to the ceviche. "At the proper time and place, I would agee."

He was delighted to see figs among the assortment of fresh fruits, and took a generous helping. Until he came to Chicago, his experience of the fruit had been limited to the dried variety. Well, Fig Newtons, to be precise. But, Mrs. Vecchio had introduced him to the delicacy with fruit from her own pampered tree, now wrapped in protective burlap against the harsh Chicago winter. He added ripe cheese to his plate and stepped away from the table. Two waiters sidled around him, arms laden with trays of new delights. That prompted a fresh wave of guests to converge on the buffet, making further conversation impossible.

Renault drew him to a more private spot against a wall. "I have wanted to speak to you all evening, Constable." He reached and plucked a long blonde hair from the shoulder of Fraser's tunic and held it up to the light. "You were, shall we say, otherwise engaged," he said, flicking the hair from his fingers. With a meaningful glance toward the bar, he added. "I gather that is no longer the case."

Fraser looked uncomfortable. "Mrs. Harrington had a slight ... accident. I am sure she will return to the ball forthwith."

"Forthwith," he repeated, amused. He leaned a shoulder against the wall and faced Fraser. "How extravagant you are, Constable. Throwing away a rich, influential woman like that. Someday, they may be scarce."

Fraser said, abashed, "I didn't – "

"Tut, man." Renault said, dismissively. "Let us not talk of Tuppy Harrington, when there are so many more interesting things to discuss, ne c'est pas?" He looked expectant.

"Like – uh – what, sir?" Fraser ventured.

"Like you." Renault turned his winning smile on him.

He blinked at the wattage. "Er ... I ... uh ... have orders to stick to small talk."

"Small talk?" Renault's eyes danced with amusement.

"The ... um ... weather," he stammered. "The view, the food, the music."

"The weather is cold, the view magnificent, the food delicious, and the music divine." He nodded, firmly. "There. It is done. We have obeyed orders," he said, with a conspiratorial wink. "Now, what else shall we talk about?"

"Um –"

Renault snapped his fingers. "But, of course! Your singing!" He put his hand to his chest, in a dramatic gesture. "Quite moving. It was like an arrow pointed right at my heart. "Which," he added, eyes twinkling, "I assure you, is usually my least vulnerable spot." He bowed, slightly. "You inspired everyone in the room. I congratulate you."

Fraser was silent. "No, sir," he said, finally.

"Eh?" Renault frowned. "No, what?"

"I cannot accept your congratulations."

Renault frowned.

He added, hastily, "I cannot accept because it was _you_ that inspired me."

Renault's offended expression evaporated. "You flatter me, Constable."

"No, sir, I don't," he said, truthfully. "I ... uh ... don't know how."

Renault laughed in delight. "Your honesty is quite refreshing. Especially, at a gathering such as this."

"To be honest, sir, this _is_ my first time," he confessed.

"Oh?" Intrigued, Renault moved a half-step closer. "Your first time?"

Fraser took a half step in retreat. That put his back against the wall. He clutched his plate tightly in front of him. "My first time at ... a ... uh ... a gathering like this." He gestured vaguely to encompass the ballroom, the dancers, the band. His expression was rueful. "I confess I feel a bit like Eliza Doolittle at the Ascot races."

"There is a first time for everything," Renault said, softly. "Perhaps, you need a Henry Higgins to guide you."

"Perhaps," Fraser murmured, staring at Renault's eyes. They were an unusual shade of gray, seeming to change from light to dark, and back again, depending upon his mood. They were a pale silver now, as Renault's voice took on a playful tone.

"Still, I would like to know how I may have inspired you, Constable. I assure you I cannot sing a note."

"Because I ... you are ..." Fraser licked dry lips and straightened to attention. "May I speak freely, sir?"

"Please." He smiled, seductively. "I want you to feel free with me." He rested a hand on Fraser's arm. "About anything."

Fraser cleared his throat. "I first came to Chicago on the trail of the killers of my father."

Renault, startled at this revelation, dropped his hand.

Fraser continued. "The post at my Consulate was a means to that end." He permitted himself a tiny sigh. "I am still a police officer. But, I now spend my days issuing visas and dispensing travelers aid." He shook his head. "I am not complaining. It's necessary work, in service to my country. But, Chicago is ... " he trailed off. "Well, it's not the Yukon."

Renault made a very French noise at that. "It is not Paris, either."

"You understand," he said, his tone hopeful. "We are both far from where we began." His voice dropped a notch. "Perhaps, in more ways than we realize. I ... uh ... " He stopped. "This is ... difficult ... for me," he added, shyly.

"Go on, Constable." Renault's voice was encouraging.

"There have been times ... when I have begun to doubt ... "

"Doubt?" Renault prompted.

"There have been times when I have begun to doubt ... myself." Fraser paused. When he resumed, his voice was low, halting. Renault leaned closer to hear.

"This week, for instance. The Hungarian deputy ... the attack on my commander ... it makes me wonder ... if it's worth it." His gaze traveled around the ballroom. "All these people ... talking peace in a world that is simply not listening ... " He looked down at his boots. "Sometimes of late ... I have felt like a man trying to convince himself of something he doesn't believe in his heart." He bowed his head.

Renault leaned closer. "My dear fellow –"

Fraser's head shot up. His blue eyes were clear and piercing. "But tonight, seeing you with Ilsa Lund, Emil Strasser and Miguel Ugarte on that stage ... in that moment ... I _believed_." He pinioned Renault with his gaze. "In that moment, sir, I believed in _you_."

Renault had an odd expression on his handsome features. He brought the glass to his lips and drank.

Fraser's voice took on an admiring tone. "And, when I think of your actions in Casablanca ..." He shook his head. "Brilliant, if I may say so, sir. The way you used the explosion to achieve your aims. Especially, when the eyes of the world were upon you. It was quite a coup."

Renault's eyes had deepened to a slate hue. "Coup –?"

Fraser nodded. "Effectuating the truce by using the death of a great man. A friend and colleague. It is the rare individual who could exploit such a tragic situation to such a profitable end. Truly, a remarkable feat."

Renault swallowed champagne.

"So, you see why I cannot accept your congratulations." He bowed. "It is I who salute _you,_ M'sieu Renault."

Renault looked uncertain. Finally, he muttered, "Thank you. I try."

"We all try," Fraser replied. "You succeeded. If I may be so bold, sir ... I believe that Victor Laszlo ... wherever he is ... would be proud."

Renault was silent. His mouth twisted as if he had swallowed something bitter.

Fraser took a forkful of ceviche. It was refreshingly light and tart on his tongue.

At last, Renault spoke. His voice was strained. "Did you ever learn who killed your father?"

"Yes."

Renault waited, then prompted. "Well? Who was it?"

Fraser looked him straight in the eye. "His friend and colleague."

Renault recoiled a half step.

Fraser tried the mousse. It was excellent.

After an awkward silence, the Frenchman ventured, "The ... the weather has been quite cold for this time of year."

"Yes, it has. For Chicago, I mean," Fraser agreed. He glanced over Renault's shoulder and stiffened abruptly. "Will you excuse me, sir," he said, frowning. Without waiting for an answer, he walked away, setting his plate on a passing waiter's tray.

Puzzled, Renault turned and watched as he headed to the Spanish Consul's table. He hurried to catch up.


	17. Chapter 17

**CHAPTER SEVENTEEN**

A few minutes before ...

Ray approached the table where Miguel Ugarte sat alone. The flag of Spain – horizontal stripes of red, yellow, red – marked it as his Consulate's table. He was talking on his cell phone. His voice was hushed, but intense.

" – not much longer." A pause, then in a hard, clipped voice, "He can't, Karim ... Because, I said so." A pause. He noticed Ray, waiting patiently. "Wait for the call." That last was cold as ice. He flipped the phone shut.

Ray said, politely, "May I join you?"

Ugarte gave him a cool look. Ray returned it, as he got the once-over from his close-cropped hair to his polished wingtips. Evidently, he and the Armani passed muster, because the Spaniard invited him to sit. There was no sign of recognition. Then, something clicked, and he pointed at Ray. "You were in the hall. With Emil. You are the other Canadian."

"Honorary, only," Ray said, smiling. At Ugarte's questioning look, he explained. "I'm an American." He added, "When I'm in town, they put me up at the Consulate. I'm their guest tonight."

"Oh? Government official?"

"Business partner," he said, smoothly, extending a hand. "Ray Vecchio of the Vecchio Group, Limited."

Ugarte's bored look disappeared. "Miguel Ugarte, at your service." They shook hands. "Are you enjoying the ball, Mr. Vecchio?"

"Sure. How 'bout you?"

He nodded, then ventured, "The Vecchio Group. I am not familiar with the name."

"Private capital, family run," Ray said. "We like to fly under the radar." Way, way under, he thought, and bit the inside of his cheek to keep an ill-timed laugh at bay.

"May I inquire as to the nature of your business, Mr. Vecchio?"

"Import/export," he said, shrugging. "With the Canucks, it's maple syrup."

"Interesting."

"Not really," Ray said, his lips quirking. "But lucrative."

Ugarte narrowed his eyes in speculation. "Indeed."

An awkward silence descended. Ray broke it. "Look, I'm not much for small talk. So, before we start talking about the weather, let me put my cards on the table." At Ugarte's raised eyebrows, he continued. "Ilsa tells me you're the money guy."

"I beg your pardon?"

Ray said, patiently, "Ilsa said you're the expert. International finance. Off-shore accounts. Asian securities."

"Ah, yes. Ilsa." His voice lingered over the name. He looked around the ballroom. "Where is she?"

"Helping Tuppy Harrington with a change of clothes." He coughed. "Little accident with a glass of wine."

"Ah." He smirked. "Ilsa is very kind." He emphasized the word, looking Ray over in curious appraisal.

"Uh, yeah. She's great." To his dismay, Ray found his face warming at Ugarte's frank perusal. He was grateful for his protective coloration. If he was Fraser, he'd be a beet.

Ugarte leaned back in his chair and ran a finger over his lips. "I have known Ilsa Lund a long time. A very long time. She is usually the soul of decorum. And yet, there has been talk tonight ..." He said, "Ilsa and you. In one of the conference rooms? I can hardly credit it."

Ray frowned. "A gentleman doesn't kiss and tell."

Ugarte's eyes narrowed at the implied criticism.

He laughed. "But, hey, who ever said I was a gentleman?" Ray leaned back in his chair, looking smug. "Yeah, it's true." He snorted. "Caught in the act in the Potawatomee Room. By Tuppy Harrington, of all people." He added, sarcastically, "It'll be front page news tomorrow." He was a cool customer, Ray thought, with grudging admiration. No sign of nerves, despite talk of the conference room adjoining the one with the dead body.

Ugarte looked skeptical. "Forgive me for doubting you, Mr. Vecchio, but you hardly seem Ilsa's type."

Ray bristled. "And what type would that be?"

"Noble," Ugarte said, bluntly.

He chuckled. "Ya got me there, Miguel." He grinned, insouciantly. "OK to call you, Miguel?"

"Yes ... Ray."

"You're absolutely right, Miguel," Ray said, brushing an imaginary speck from his tux. "I don't think noble counts for a hill of beans in this crazy world." He looked up. "I'm a businessman."

Ugarte leaned forward. "These cards you wish to put on the table. May I know what is the game?"

It was Ray's turn to be blunt. "A hypothetical one."

"Of course."

"Hypothetically speaking ... the game involves five million dollars and how to make it disappear from one place, then reappear someplace else, scrubbed up all nice and clean in the process." He added, "Of course, in this game, the trick is to do it without one of the other players noticing."

Ugarte sat up straight at the figure Ray named. "And, this 'other player'?"

"Let's just say a party whose initials begin with 'I' and end in 'S'." He added, "Hypothetically speaking."

"Well, perhaps I do know a little something about how that game is played," Ugarte said, modestly. "That does not necessarily mean that I am a player, myself."

Ray waved a hand. "You don't have to be coy with me." He smiled. "I like to do business with a man who knows how to do business."

Ugarte inclined his head at the compliment. "Speaking hypothetically, of course, there would be carrying charges for such a transaction – "

"I would expect you to bleed me," Ray said, philosophically. "What's the cut?"

Now, it was Ugarte's turn to bristle. "I assure you, sir, that if I were to undertake such an enterprise, I would be providing a valuable service to you at considerable risk to myself."

"Take it easy, Miguel," Ray said, soothingly. "I don't beat around the bush. Like I told you, I ain't Canadian."

He glanced pointedly over Ugarte's shoulder until he turned to follow Ray's gaze. In the distance, Louis Renault had Fraser backed against a wall. Benny was holding a small plate in front of him like it was a shield.

"For instance, if _I _were our relentless hero over there,_ I_ wouldn't be so polite. _I'd_ toss your friend in the Lake to cool him off." Ray shrugged one shoulder. "But, hey, that's just me."

Ugarte laughed in delight. "You are a refreshing breath of air, Ray." He made a face. "But, you make me sound like a parasite."

"I don't mind a parasite," Ray said. "I do object to a cut-rate one." He grinned to take the sting out of his words. "So, what's your slice?"

Ugarte's voice was mild. "Hypothetically speaking, five percent is the customary carrying charge."

Ray nodded. "Hypothetically speaking, that seems fair." He reached into a pocket and extracted a business card. He gave it to Ugarte. "Call me next week." He smirked. "That gives you a chance to check me out."

Ugarte looked at the card. On heavy card stock, simple script, were Ray's name and cell phone number. "Monday," he confirmed, not denying Ray's supposition. He signaled a passing waiter and grabbed two champagnes from his tray. He handed one to Ray, then lifted his glass in salute.

He said, in a conversational tone. "Are you a frequent guest at the Canadian Consulate?"

Ray shrugged. "Once a month, or so."

"You must know Meg Thatcher." He clucked his tongue. "How is she, after that dreadful business at the airport?"

"Sore, in more ways than one," Ray said, grinning. "But, she'll be OK."

"She is indeed a spirited woman." Ugarte lowered his voice to a confiding hush. "Passionate, like the tiger." He leaned forward, one man of the world to another. "If you have the opportunity to sample her, I urge you to do so. You will not regret it."

To his surprise, Ray found his fist clenching under the table. He wanted to deck Ugarte on the Dragon Lady's behalf. But, he maintained his cover of wealthy venal businessman on the make and snorted derisively instead.

"I might, if Dudley Do-Right found out." Ray's voice dripped contempt as he glowered at the Mountie.

Ugarte frowned in puzzlement, "Dudley ...? Do you refer to Constable Fraser? But ... he is your friend, no?"

"No way!" Ray scoffed. "I can't stand that guy!"

"But, I saw you render assistance to him. With Emil – "

Ray was dismissive. "Not to _him_." He grinned, lasciviously, "To the _lady_. I was her knight in shining armor." He winked. "Believe me, it paid off."

Ugarte echoed the lewd grin. "You called Fraser relentless. How so?"

"He's like a dog with a bone," Ray said, rolling his eyes, "Once the guy gets something in his head, he never lets it go. He's been a pain in my ass since he got transferred down from the North Pole." He narrowed his eyes. "Goddam Goody Two-Shoes," he muttered.

"Indeed." He glanced over his shoulder at Fraser.

"He's all about duty and honor and fair play," Ray said, in disgust. He shot a belligerent look at Fraser, while absently tugging on his ear. "I bet he sleeps in that damn red uniform. Hat and all." He tugged his ear again. "Renault's wasting his time," he added.

Ugarte followed his gaze. "Still," he mused, "Louis loves a challenge." He gave Ray a sly look. "And, he usually gets what he wants."

Ray lifted an eyebrow. "Care to make it interesting?" At Ugarte's questioning look, he elaborated, "I'll bet you a thousand dollars that Renault strikes out with Fraser."

Ugarte let out a little snort. "Make it five hundred. I'm only a poor consular official."

"Done!" Ray laughed, tugging his ear again. "You know, he shouldn't even be here," he complained. "I was supposed to escort the tasty lady inspector, but she sprained her ankle." He grinned wolfishly, every inch the Ugly American. "Still, you have to admit Ilsa Lund is a helluva consolation prize."

"Indeed," Ugarte said, saluting him with his glass.

Ray's eyes narrowed. "Crap! He's coming over here," he muttered.


	18. Chapter 18

**CHAPTER EIGHTEEN**

Ray and Ugarte watched Fraser stride purposefully toward them, Louis Renault in his wake. He stopped at their table and stood at attention. Pointedly ignoring Ray, he said to Ugarte. "Sir, may I speak to you? And you, M'sieu Renault?" He added, "Privately?"

Ugarte hesitated.

Ray's voice was sharp enough to cut glass. "I told you to stay out of my business."

Ugarte and Renault looked at him in surprise.

"You have already besmirched the reputation of a lady tonight," Fraser said, stiffly. "I will not allow you to use your status as a guest of my Consulate to insinuate yourself with people of good character." He paused. "Not without advising them of the nature of yours."

He turned to Ugarte, "Sir, you should be aware that Mr. Vecchio is not what he seems. He is a – "

Ray was on his feet. Without warning, he punched Fraser in the midsection. Air whooshed out of his lungs as he doubled over. Renault caught him as he sagged, scrambling to slide a chair under him.

Ugarte rose and looked around. Ray's attack, so unexpected and so swift, had barely been noticed. Most of the surrounding tables were empty. An attache at the Peruvian table gaped at them, then hastily looked away and resumed his conversation with his date.

Ray straightened his tie. "I warned him," he said, mildly. Then, to Ugarte, he mouthed, "Call me." He walked away without looking back.

Ugarte resumed his seat and regarded the Mountie with speculation. Fraser's face was gray. His mouth worked as he struggled to breathe. Renault rubbed his back, murmuring encouragement.

After a minute, his paralyzed diaphragm relaxed and Fraser drew a ragged breath. He sat back, wiping his brow with the back of his hand. Ray hadn't pulled that punch. Serves me right, he thought, for insisting on authenticity. A wave of nausea rolled over him. He closed his eyes, concentrating on holding on to the mousse before he took the scene to a new and disgusting level of authenticity.

Renault asked a waiter to bring a glass of water. When he returned with it, Fraser sipped carefully.

"Thank you, kindly," he said to Renault. Then, to both of them, "I'm sorry for that scene, gentlemen."

Ugarte waved away the apology. "I think we are entitled to an explanation."

Fraser hesitated, then reminded himself that he was playing a part. Any falsehood he told in service of that was for a good cause. Still, he should keep prevarication to a minimum, if only because he was so very bad at it. He remembered the Inspector's advice. Start small and build.

"First, I must tell you that Mr. Vecchio is not Canadian," he said, truthfully.

"Yes, he said he does business with your country. Maple syrup, I believe."

Fraser made a face. "He maintains an unusually familiar relationship with my Consulate." He paused. "But ... I believe he is presenting a false front tonight."

"False?"

Fraser lowered his voice. "He told you he represents a private family business?"

"Yes."

"Did he also tell you that the 'family' he represents is an American organized crime syndicate?"

"No," Ugarte said, frowning.

"Or that they engage in money laundering ... illegal arms dealing ... perhaps other even more unsavory activities?"

Ugarte's eyebrows climbed to his hairline. "And yet, he is a guest of your Consulate?"

Fraser rubbed his eyebrow with his thumb. "The ... uh ... proof ... of these practices ... is ... difficult ... to obtain."

"Ah," Ugarte said, sagely. "Tell me, Constable, does Meg share your opinion of Mr. Vecchio?"

He looked down at his hands. "No. If asked, Meg ... I mean, my commanding officer would say my suspicions are unwarranted."

Ugarte smiled. "Perhaps, Meg believes that a person is innocent until proved guilty?"

He looked embarrassed. "Yes, she does. The Inspector is a highly principled individual." He added, "But, this isn't a court of law."

"True," Renault agreed. "It's a party."

"I do not have the words to express my admiration for you both. And of course, Mr. Strasser and Miss Lund, as well." He looked around the ballroom for them in vain. "Your work with Victor Laszlo, your efforts in the cause of peace ..." To Ugarte, he added, "Your reputation in international finance is unmatched. I would not want you to be tainted – "

"Tainted?!" Ugarte was offended. "I am shocked – shocked – that you would think I would engage in illegal activity!"

"I meant no offense," Fraser said, hastily. "But, innocent people can be tarnished by even casual association with a criminal. As a guest of my Consulate, Mr. Vecchio bears the tacit endorsement of my country. If he is a man of dubious character, it is my duty to warn you." His gaze locked with Ugarte's. "Your work – Victor Laszlo's work – is too important for even the hint of scandal to touch it."

He looked mollified. "Thank you, Constable. I do appreciate that." He glanced over at the bar where Ray, drink in hand, watched them. "I consider myself warned."

Fraser sat back, looking relieved. He sipped more water.

"I thank you too." Renault laid a hand on his shoulder. "Are you feeling better?"

Fraser was embarrassed by his solicitude. "Yes. Thank you." He started to rise, but Renault urged him to sit. "No," he insisted. "I must speak to Mr. Harrington," he said, searching the ballroom for their host. "Ilsa Lund mentioned that Vecchio was seeking an introduction to our host. At the least, I can stay close to him and prevent that from happening."

Renault protested. "But, my dear fellow, surely this is not the time or the place – "

"I may not have another opportunity. Mr. and Mrs. Harrington leave the country in less than twelve hours." Fraser stood. He wobbled a bit and steadied himself with a hand on the table. "I may not have the proof, as you pointed out, sir. But, I can no longer keep silent and do nothing." He drew himself up, tugging his tunic straight. "Even if it does cost me my job."

He spotted Walter Harrington by the bar, surrounded by guests. Fraser frowned. "It is impossible to speak privately with him in here," he said, softly, almost to himself. "Perhaps, one of the conference rooms off the foyer." He straightened in resolve. "Thank you, gentlemen."

Renault exchanged an alarmed glance with Ugarte.

Ugarte stopped Fraser with a hand on his sleeve. "Constable," he began. "If you could obtain proof – in a way that would permit you to keep your job and turn the tables on Vecchio. Would you be interested?"

Fraser brightened. "Yes, sir. But, as I said, proving anything will be difficult."

Ugarte motioned for him to sit, then leaned close. "Instead of these vague suspicions, what if you can get something really big, something that would put Vecchio behind bars where he belongs ... that would be quite a feather in your cap, would it not?"

"It certainly would," he said, eagerly. "Meg ... I mean, Inspector Thatcher would be very impressed."

"I think I can help." He leaned back, steepling his fingers. "You are right. Vecchio did approach me ... about money-laundering." As Fraser reacted, he held up a hand. "I did not take him up on it, of course."

"Of course," he echoed.

"But, I did lead him on. I intended to report his behavior to an appropriate authority." He made a face. "He was very cryptic. Nothing that would hold up in court, mind you."

"He can be surprisingly circumspect," Fraser agreed. "What did you have in mind, sir?"

"I think he will believe that I can be corrupted by a large sum of money. Suppose ... I were to accept his offer to launder his ill-gotten gains?" At Fraser's nod, he continued, "I will meet with him now, insisting on the details and a payment on account. You will be concealed nearby, where you can see and hear everything." He snapped his fingers. "Better yet, Louis will join you."

Renault shot him a startled glance.

Ugarte continued. "That way, you will have two witnesses independent from yourself to attest to his guilt. Would that satisfy you?"

"Oh, yes," Fraser said, enthusiastically. "I have no arrest authority in this jurisdiction," he explained. "But, it would be enough to swear out a complaint with the local authorities. As Deputy Liaison officer, I work closely with a detective in the Chicago Police Department." He looked thoughtful. "At the least, it would provide the grounds for Meg – I mean, my Consulate – to sever the relationship."

Ugarte looked at Renault, then back at Fraser. "Then, we are agreed."

"But, gentlemen. Are you sure you want to do this?" He rubbed his abdomen with a rueful look. "Mr. Vecchio can be quite ... vindictive."

"As Walter said, peace is our business, Constable," Renault said, pompously. "If we can shut down even one arms dealer, we advance our cause."

Ugarte added, "But, we should not cast a pall over the festivities tonight. Or, involve our host in any unpleasantness. We must be discreet."

"There are four small conference rooms in the hall to the left of the washrooms. Perhaps we can use one," Fraser suggested. He turned in that direction. "I will check to see which best suits our purposes."

"No!" Renault interjected. At Fraser's quizzical look, he added, "That would still be too close to the festivities. Vecchio might make another scene." He made a face. "There has been enough of that already."

"There is a private venue that we can use. Here in the hotel." Ugarte said, with a meaningful glance at Renault. "In fact, Constable, perhaps you can assist Louis. We need help to ... move ... something."

"Yes, of course," Renault said. "We could use your help. Good thinking, Miguel."

"I would be pleased to assist you in any way I can," Fraser said, politely. "May I ask where –?"

"Louis can show you, Constable," Ugarte cut in, smoothly. "You can easily conceal yourselves there." He glanced at his watch. "Go now. I will bring Mr. Vecchio to you in fifteen minutes."

Fraser noted the time on his own watch. "Yes, sir."

"Come, mon ami," Renault urged, with a hand on his back.

"Where are we going?" he asked the Frenchman.

"It is easier to show you," he said, mysteriously, as he ushered him through the crowded room.

Fraser was ready, willing and eager to go wherever he led. Ray's "good cop, bad businessman" ploy seemed to be working. He slid a finger down the side of his nose, wishing in vain that he could communicate more specifically with Ray. Unfortunately, his partner didn't know semaphore. Well, other than the letter X. But, even if Ray did know that visual alphabet, he supposed that waving their arms around in a crowded ballroom was hardly an inconspicuous way to converse.

Their progress through the ballroom was slow. Every few steps, a woman asked Fraser to dance. He declined graciously but used the delays to repeat the finger-on-nose gesture. Eventually, they made it out of the ballroom and proceeded to the first security station.

Drink in hand (he'd switched to ginger ale in a champagne flute), Ray watched from the bar as Renault and Fraser made their slow way out of the ballroom. Of course, he had caught the signal the first time, but Benny kept rubbing his nose to be sure. The big goof thought he was being subtle.

It was the grifters' gesture from _The Sting. _A few months back, when Ray learned that the Mountie had never seen the film, he'd immediately whipped out the videotape and sat him on the couch to watch it. Benny refused to admit that he liked the movie since rooting for lawless con men violated his personal code of ethics. But, he had adopted the gesture and used it often. He'd even taught it to Dief. On stakeout one night, Ray nearly blew coffee out his nose when he saw the wolf rub his snout with a paw in response to Fraser's identical gesture.

Ray understood the message. "Be cool and stick to the plan." Ray itched to follow him. But, his place was here. His job now was to keep Ugarte away from Walter Harrington. Ray had been watching the billionaire enjoy his party. Either the distinguished man was the world's best actor, or he had not yet been approached with a ransom demand. Ray was betting on the latter.

But, time was running out. The ball would be over in a couple of hours. Walter and Tuppy were leaving in their private plane for the next leg of their epic journey some few hours after that. Logically, the kidnappers' demand would be made tonight. It was the only scenario that made sense of the Polaroid. Make that Polaroids, plural. He and Fraser surmised that the particular Polaroid they had found in the couch had been rejected for the ransom demand because it showed the telltale scratch on Renault's hand.

Logically, a fresh shot had been taken, and the rejected photo secreted away by Strasser. His ill-fated rendezvous in the Chippewa Room was supposed to be the next step toward blowing the whistle on the plot.

Logically, the purpose of taking such a photo was two-fold: the local paper showed Laszlo was here, in Chicago; the headlines proved he was alive today. If the plan wasn't going down tonight, the bad guys wouldn't have used that edition.

Logical, yeah.

But, logic had never been Ray's strong suit. The uncertainty was driving him nuts.

Still, they had to operate on that premise. What else did they have to go on? Therefore, Ray's job was to keep Ugarte away from Harrington. The longer they could hold the ransom demand at bay, the more time they had to find Victor Laszlo.

So, they had gone to great lengths to convince Renault and Ugarte that Ray was a potential source of profit, possibly even a partner in crime. But, not a threat to their scheme. Not someone to worry about or keep an eye on. And most definitely, not a friend to the man in red. Ray felt bad about the punch, but Benny had insisted that the animosity must look real. To look real, it had to be real. That sick look on Fraser's face had gone a long way to establishing Ray's bona fides.

But, at the same time, he had set Fraser up as the wrench in the works, the bump in the road, the fly in the ointment. Pick your metaphor. Self-righteous, single-minded Fraser had made it his mission to protect Walter Harrington from the corrupt Ray Vecchio. His vow to stick close to the billionaire had to be making the bad guys nervous.

And cramping their style. It would be impossible for Ugarte and Renault to put the squeeze on Harrington with a stalwart Mountie hovering. Ergo, they had to get him out of the way. At least, Fraser hoped so. It might give him something to work with. Perhaps even lead him to Laszlo's location. Renault and Fraser might be heading there now.

All well and good, except Ray felt like he had just painted a big bullseye on Benny's back. Centered right over the scar left behind by the bullet he had put there. He cast one last look at the ballroom exit. The thing about a fly in the ointment was it tended to get squished. He shook his head, and straightened his tie.

Benny had a job to do. Where he was going, Ray couldn't follow.

Ugarte was talking intently on his cell phone, still alone at his Consulate's table. When he hung up, Ray sauntered over. Ugarte looked up in irritation but turned it into a polite, if insincere smile, when he saw who it was. "Sit down, Ray."

Ray declined. "No, thanks. I'm waiting for Ilsa." He gestured toward the ballroom entrance with his drink. Ilsa and Tuppy Harrington stood on the threshold. He waved. Ilsa nodded and said something to Tuppy. The hostess, looking youthful and fresh, in new makeup, hair and colorful silk kaftan, pecked Ilsa on the cheek, then headed for her husband.

As he watched Ilsa approach, Ray asked, casually, "Where did Renault and Fraser go?"

Ugarte frowned.

Ray raised his hand, defensively. "Hey, my interest in whether they stay or go is purely a sporting one. Remember our bet."

Ugarte's face cleared. "I cannot say, Ray." He smirked. "But, Louis does keep a room, upstairs. Handy for the occasional assignation."

Ray managed a wan grin and stepped up to intercept Ilsa before she reached the table. She might be wearing her game face, but she didn't need to test it by conversing with a man holding her husband prisoner. Neither did he. He offered his arm and led her to the dance floor. Tuppy proceeded across the room, waving and yoo-hooing at everyone she saw.

"I saw Benton getting on the elevator," she said, anxiously. "What is he doing with Louis?"

"Maybe taking one for the team," he muttered, before pulling her close. She might not show it on her face, but Ray could feel the tension in her body. He gave her hand a sympathetic squeeze.

"Tuppy looks great," he ventured. "Seems like she's forgotten all about Fraser."

Ilsa leaned back, giving him a reproachful look. "She, too, has a game face, Ray." She glanced over his shoulder. Ray turned his head. Tuppy had reached her husband. He opened his arms. She moved into his embrace, resting her head on his shoulder. He held her for a long moment, patting her back. Then, lifting her chin, he planted a kiss on her cheek, before leading her to the dance floor. "She was deeply hurt by Benton's rejection."

"Fraser had to – " he began, defensive on his friend's behalf.

"I know he did, Ray," she said, quickly. "I am not criticizing him." They moved in silence, keeping an eye on Ugarte and Harrington. Ugarte sat at the Spanish table nursing a drink, looking like he hadn't a care in the world. He paid no attention to Harrington or them or the clock.

She whispered in his ear. "Tell me again why I cannot go over there and hit him with my shoe until he tells me where Victor is."

Ray knew she was only half-joking. "Because ... we don't know the arrangements." He nodded toward Ugarte. "He's been keeping the cell phone close. I overheard him talking to Karim. One word from Ugarte, and ... well, you know."

"So, why not take the phone away? I could hit _it _with my shoe." She added, "Accidentally, of course."

"Because we don't know if Karim has orders to dispose of Victor if he _doesn't _hear from Ugarte at a pre-arranged time," he said, patiently. "Ugarte and Renault are no dummies. They gotta have the contingencies covered."

She blew out a breath. "I suppose you're right." Her brow wrinkled in thought. "Of course, you are. He would anticipate each move. Miguel is a chess grandmaster."

Ray stared at her. "He is?"

"You didn't know?" she said, surprised. "He's ranked among the top players in the world."

That's just great,Ray thought. He looked warily at the good-looking Spaniard. Well, we knew he wasn't just a pretty face ...

Ilsa was still talking. "Tell me why you and Benton think Victor is here in this hotel. You said you'd explain once there was time."

They had scrambled to get out of the Chippewa Room and back to the ball. There had been no time to spell it all out. Ray and Fraser had been partners for eighteen months, had built that partnership from the ground up, then rebuilt it after Victoria had torn it asunder. Ray trusted Fraser with his life; he knew Benny felt the same. And, they trusted in each other's abilities. One partner's strength complimented the other's weakness. Over time, they had developed their own shorthand, and had formulated the plan with a minimum of speech.

Ilsa had no such grounding. Yet, here she was putting all her faith in two men she had met a few hours ago. Ray realized yet again what an extraordinary woman he held in his arms. He nuzzled her hair to keep up appearances, as he explained the razor-thin premise.

"It's the cigarettes," he whispered.

The distinctive odor of Gauloises cigarettes, to be precise. It clung to Strasser's clothes, hair and skin. Paradoxically, the Chippewa Room, its drapes, carpet and furnishings did not smell of smoke. Only Strasser. And he reeked. There was no smoking allowed in the ballroom or other interior spaces of the hotel, with the exception of a few designated guest rooms up in the hotel proper. The terrace was the designated smoking area for guests at the ball.

Of course, a guest could leave the building to smoke if he so desired, but then he would have to run the security gauntlet to re-enter. Who would bother? But even so, smoking in any outdoor space, either the terrace or the sidewalk in front of the hotel, would dissipate the reek of Gauloises even on a smoker's person, much less a non-smoker in proximity. Especially with the stiff breeze coming off the Lake tonight.

For the odor to permeate Strasser's clothes in that concentration, he would have had to be in a confined space with the smoker, shortly before his death. Even traveling to and from a nearby building would have subjected him to the cleansing effect of the outside air.

"So, that's why we think Karim's holed up in the hotel with Victor," he said in conclusion.

She stared at him, speechless.

He frowned, feeling inadequate. The explanation would have sounded better coming from Fraser. He laid her head on his shoulder and tried to explain Benny's olfactory prowess, but gave it up after a minute. He didn't blame Ilsa for having doubts. She was still struggling with the idea that a cufflink had brought them to the ball in the first place.

But, Ray had come to respect Fraser's acute sense of smell as much as his bat-like hearing and freaky taste buds. He could accept the working hypothesis that Karim was holding Victor Laszlo prisoner in this very hotel on the strength of Fraser's olfactory analysis alone. Especially since they had nothing else to go on. So, he was taking it on faith that Laszlo was either in one of the designated guest suites where smoking was permitted or, more likely, in one of the non-public areas of the hotel. Of which, there were many. Ray was staggered at the multitude of kitchens, pantries, storage rooms, laundry facilities, maintenance areas, tool bays, garages, and such necessary to run Chicago's premiere luxury hotel. They couldn't possibly search all the hiding places where Victor Laszlo could be stashed.

What they needed was for the bad guys to show them where he was.

Ilsa whispered, "And that's why Benton went with Louis?"

"Exactly," he murmured. That was _Benny's_ reason. Whatever Ray thought Renault's reasons were, he kept to himself.


	19. Chapter 19

**CHAPTER NINETEEN**

Fraser followed Renault through the several security stations from the ballroom to the lobby of the hotel, where their security badges were produced, and names were checked off lists. At the last, they were asked to sign out in the book for that purpose. Fraser noted the entries for Ilsa's and Mrs. Harrington's signatures, made twenty five minutes ago. He wished he could peruse the book further to see if Ugarte, Renault or Strasser had signed in or out since the ball had begun. That would help pin down their movements. But, Renault was watching him, even though he chatted amusingly with the guards. Fraser signed his name, noted the time, and set the pen down.

They crossed the lobby to the bank of elevators that served the hotel proper. When the doors pinged open, several people exited the car. Renault ushered Fraser inside. Several guests of the hotel, their more casual dress denoting that they were not attending the ball, joined them. Buttons were pressed. Renault was the last to choose a floor. He pushed 59, the top floor. Just before the doors closed, Fraser saw Ilsa and Tuppy Harrington exit the opposite elevator. Ilsa looked at him in surprise. Fortunately, Mrs. Harrington hadn't spotted him, despite his red tunic.

Fraser's uniform did attract curious glances from his fellow travelers in the elevator car. He wished them all a good evening in return. But, in the manner of strangers in elevators in this city, no one spoke or made eye contact, preferring instead to stare fixedly at the light that denoted each level. The final passenger exited at the 58th floor, leaving Renault and Fraser alone in the car. The doors slid shut. Doubt had washed over him when Renault had pressed the button for the 59th floor. Now, it deepened to disappointment.

Disparate pieces of the puzzle – the Polaroid showing the utilitarian metal table and a shipping crate plastered with diplomatic stickers too large to fit through a hotel guest room door; Karim's chain-smoking habit which would limit his movement within the hotel; Strasser's truncated remarks to Ugarte at the bar – had led Fraser to conclude that Laszlo was a prisoner somewhere down in the bowels of the hotel.

He berated himself for assuming that Renault was taking him there. Now, that the car was empty of other passengers, he could see the entire electronic panel. The lowest level this elevator accessed was "L," the lobby where they had boarded.

He switched mental gears. They were going to a guest room. It was possible, however unlikely, that Karim was holding the captive in such a room. But, Fraser didn't think so. Then, what was the purpose of this trip? He didn't believe for one instant that Ugarte was setting Ray up for arrest. Ergo, Renault was getting him out of the way. How long would he keep him in his private room pretending that they were waiting for Ugarte and Ray to appear? Long enough, he supposed, for Ugarte to approach Harrington with the ransom demand. At least, Ray was in place to hamper that. But, Fraser had a sinking feeling that they were underestimating their opponents' talent for improvisation.

He felt Renault's eyes upon him. Perhaps, he was being lured to a guest room for another reason altogether. One that would serve the dual purpose of getting Fraser out of the way _and _satisfy that hungry look on Renault's face. He swallowed nervously. Could the man really believe that he would –

At that moment, Renault pushed the stop button. The elevator lurched to a halt. Renault looked over his shoulder at him and smiled. Fraser held his breath. He was ill-equipped to handle attempted seduction by a woman, much less a man. He reminded himself sternly that another person's life was at stake. A great man. Surely, he could endure an awkward moment or two if it would help save Victor Laszlo. He forced himself to stop fingering the coins in his pocket and stand at ease, hands clasped behind his back. He silently recited the mantra he used to induce a meditative state, remembering that a kiss was ... just a kiss.

But, Renault merely reached into his breast pocket and extracted a silver key. He inserted it into the control panel and turned it counterclockwise. New destinations suddenly appeared on the electronic panel display. At the top, above the number "59", was a new light with the letter "P." For the penthouse, Fraser presumed. And at the bottom of the panel, three more basement levels. Renault pressed "B3." The elevator began to descend. Fraser realized that they were going straight down without stopping. The key seemed to override all other commands, making the car an express to the basement.

"I apologize for the circuitous route, Constable, but it would have been impolite to take control with other people in the elevator," Renault explained.

"Of course," he murmured.

While the veracity of the statement was not in question, Fraser knew it wasn't the real motivation. By taking the "circuitous route," Renault had concealed their true destination and covered their tracks. Witnesses who rode in the elevator with them, would attest that they were going to the 59th floor. Fraser suppressed a smile. He_ was _walking into a trap.

A double ping announced level B3. The doors opened. Bright fluorescent light illuminated a terminus with utilitarian decor – concrete floor and block walls painted an unattractive green. Renault bowed. "After you," he said, politely. Fraser stepped out into the small vestibule. Renault removed the key, pushed a button on the panel, and exited the elevator. The doors closed behind him, the cables whirring as the car ascended.

It was cool down here, a trifle dank. Fraser inhaled the scents of concrete dust, mildew and a sharp chemical tang.

"Bromine!" he exclaimed, mentally kicking himself for failing to identify the smell on Strasser's shoes earlier. Yes, bromine and chlorine had a similar scent, but that was no excuse.

"Eh? What is bromine?"

"An element. Number 39 on the Periodic Table." At Renault's mystified look, Fraser explained, "It's a chemical used in industrial water treatment." He sniffed again. "It would appear that the hotel's coolant system has a leak. The tank must be located on this level." His voice reverberated in the small space.

He yipped sharply, then threw his head back and howled in a fair imitation of Dief. The sound amplified and reflected off the concrete walls. Renault started, then stared at him as if he were from another planet. But, he didn't hear the penny's impact as it dropped to the concrete floor. Fraser, taking a casual step forward, slapped the wall with one hand.

"Good echo," he said, looking blandly at the Frenchman. His boot rested on the coin.

"Y-yes, indeed," he said, uncertainly, gesturing Fraser ahead of him. They exited the vestibule through an open door, and turned right. They walked side by side in a long corridor with overhead fluorescent tube lighting, avoiding a thin puddle of water that pooled in the center of the floor. Fraser did not comment upon the increasingly strong odor of bromine. Their footsteps echoed off the hard surfaces, obscuring the sound of the second, third and fourth pennies as they dropped from his fingers.

Renault said, casually, "My Consulate maintains a suite of rooms in the hotel for visiting dignitaries, and a storage room down here for the odd items. Displays and flags and such. It will suit our needs perfectly." He checked his watch. "We will have just enough time to get into position before Miguel brings Vecchio down."

Fraser, keeping pace beside him, said, guilelessly, "I don't know how to thank you or Senor Ugarte for your assistance."

"Don't you?" Renault's smile was arch.

Fraser's smile was a trifle uncertain, but he was saved from answering when Renault stopped at a door. It was metal, windowless, and set flush with the wall. He fumbled in his pocket and withdrew another key, which he inserted into the lock. He pushed the door open just far enough to reach inside and flick a light switch on the wall to the right. Fluorescent fixtures hummed and flickered to life. The smell of cigarette smoke wafted out.

Renault held the door half open with his shoulder. "After you, Constable," he said, gesturing politely to Fraser.

Fraser stepped over the threshold. Then, in one fluid motion, he ducked and dove for the floor, rolling on his shoulder and coming up in a crouch.

He heard a strange, crackling sound. In the doorway behind him, Renault made an odd guttural noise. He shuddered violently, then collapsed, writhing on the concrete floor.

Inside the room, the dark-haired young man holding the taser stood frozen in place, staring in shock at the convulsing Frenchman. Fraser scrambled to his feet. He punched the man on the jaw and he staggered, dropping the weapon. It skittered across the floor. Fraser followed the right hook with a hard left to the man's solar plexus that doubled him over. He dropped to the floor, curling into a fetal position. He was incapacitated; so was Renault. Fraser scanned the room quickly. One other occupant.

It was Victor Laszlo, his arms and legs bound by duct tape to the chair he sat on. His eyes rolled wildly in their sockets. Duct tape covered his mouth. His nose was free of the tape, but it was swollen, clotted with blood. He was straining desperately to draw air, to no avail. His face was nearly as gray as the tape.

Fraser dashed to him, shoving the table out of his way. He fumbled with the gag, trying to get a grip under the edge of the tape, but his fingers slipped on Laszlo' sweaty skin. He clamped one hand on the back of the suffocating man's head to hold him still, then dug his fingers ruthlessly into the flesh around his mouth. Finally, he got purchase and ripped the tape away.

Laszlo gasped, then drew rasping, ragged breaths, oblivious to his surroundings. Fraser, relieved he was breathing on his own, was about to secure Renault and the young man when he heard the crackling sound again. He whirled.

He had one coherent thought – recognition of the waiter who had brought him a glass of water – before the wrenching, crackling pain of the taser darts as they struck his chest. Then, a confusing blur of sensations. Shock. Disorientation. A single incoherent sound repeated without volition. Immobility. Lying helpless on the floor, staring up at Victor Laszlo who looked down on him with pity. Time passed, but Fraser had no way of measuring it. He watched impotently, as a pale, rumpled Louis Renault stood over him, supported by the waiter on one side and the young smoker of Gauloises on the other.

Even in his diminished state of capacity, Fraser vaguely noted the familial resemblance between the young men. Renault's mouth was moving, but Fraser couldn't understand what he was saying. Before he could gain control over his body, his senses, or even his thoughts, Renault shot him with the taser.


	20. Chapter 20

**CHAPTER TWENTY**

He came back to semi-awareness slowly. In his confused state, Fraser had no idea where he was or what had happened to him. He heard a voice in the distance, as if it came from the bottom of a well. By focusing on the voice and ignoring the disturbing sensations of his body, gradually his senses unscrambled and his thoughts began to coalesce. The voice became clearer, individual words were now distinguishable above the roaring in his ears.

"– come on. You can do it. Follow my voice. That's it – "

Fraser swam up out of the depths of pain and disorientation into full consciousness. He was still hazy and disjointed, but he remembered what happened. He tried to move. After a moment, he realized it wasn't the aftereffects of the taser preventing him. His arms and legs were bound. He lifted his head, painfully. It seemed to weigh a hundred pounds. He blinked several times before his vision cleared.

He was slumped in a chair. Over the cloying scent of cigarette smoke, he could smell the acrid odor of his own sweat. Across the room, a dark-haired man, his face turned away, leaned against the wall by the door and puffed on a cigarette.

"Can you hear me, son?"

"Dad?" he croaked. He turned his head too quickly and black spots filled his field of vision. He squeezed his eyes shut and drew slow deep breaths until the dizziness receded. When he opened them again, he saw Victor Laszlo smiling gently at him. His arms and legs were taped to the adjoining chair, but his gag had not been replaced. Of course not, Fraser thought groggily, or he wouldn't be talking to me.

"I'm sorry, sir," he managed, his voice thin and weak.

"No whispering!" It was the young man at the door. He said, harshly. "Speak so I can hear. Or I will tape your mouths." His English, though good, was heavily accented.

"Alright, Karim," Laszlo soothed. "We will." He looked at Fraser. The dark eyes in the bearded, grimy face were kind. "The dizziness will soon pass." He paused. "My name is Victor Laszlo."

Fraser nodded once. The movement made his head spin. After a moment, he opened his eyes again.

"Better?"

"A bit," he rasped, trying to keep his voice up. It was difficult. His mouth was dry, his throat raw, as if he had been screaming at the top of his lungs. He fervently hoped that had not been the case. He glanced at their guard. Karim, holding a cigarette in one hand, taser in the other, was watching him intently.

He cleared his throat. "Are you alright, sir?"

The older man grimaced. "I am, for the moment." He looked at Fraser appraisingly. "I should be asking you that. Who are you?"

He licked dry lips before replying. "Police officer. Benton Fraser."

"I saw the uniform before they took it. Canadian?"

Fraser looked down in alarm. He was so disoriented, he wouldn't have been surprised to discover he was stark naked. But, only his tunic was gone, leaving him in white Henley, suspenders, trousers and boots. The front of his shirt was wet. Saliva, he realized in dismay. He'd been drooling as copiously as Dief over a box of Krispy Kremes. Duct tape bound his arms and legs to the chair. He'd never get the adhesive residue off the trousers, he thought, grumpily. He supposed he should be grateful his mouth wasn't taped. Judging by the saturated shirt, he might have drowned.

"Are we in Canada then?" Laszlo asked.

"No, sir. Chicago." He shifted uncomfortably as far as the bindings would allow. He hurt all over.

Laszlo looked stunned. "Chicago?" He glanced at the crumpled red tunic where it lay on the floor, and back up at Fraser.

"I'm attached to the Canadian Consulate here," he explained. He looked around to confirm he was still in the small storage room on Level B3. "This ... is the basement of the Waldorf-Astoria hotel."

"The Waldorf? I have been there. I mean, here, many times before." Laszlo frowned. "Walter's annual ball is held – "

"The ball is going on above us, sir." He paused. "At least, I think so. How long was I unconscious?"

"Just a few minutes. The taser is not supposed to be used again so soon." He added, sympathetically. "They call it a 'humane weapon' and I suppose that's true ... when used properly." His gaze turned inward.

Fraser swallowed. Laszlo was speaking from experience. His flesh crawled at the thought of the repeated use of the weapon on a bound helpless captive. Twice was bad enough. But that raised an important question. _Why_ was he a captive a'tall? Renault and his minion could have easily dispatched him while he was out. They would hardly balk at one more murder, and he, unlike Victor Laszlo, had no ransom value. He decided, under the circumstances, not to look a gift horse in the mouth.

"Sir, do you know why you're here?"

Laszlo frowned. "They have been trying to force me to speak on the telephone. T-to my friend, Walter ... Walter Harrington. They want me to agree to answer questions that he will put to me." He took a breath. "Ransom, I presumed."

Fraser glanced at Karim, but the slender young man only lit another cigarette with the stub of his last one. The thick atmosphere in the room irritated his sore throat, causing a coughing fit. When he recovered, he asked, "_Did_ you speak to him, sir?"

"I refused," Laszlo said, simply.

So, that was the reason for the kidnapers' delay this evening. Their captive was not cooperating. Fraser looked at Laszlo in admiration. Three months of captivity had ravaged the man. He was thin, gaunt, dirty, his hair stringy, his skin an unhealthy pallor. The bloody nose was fresh. But despite the evidence of abuse, his eyes shone with a keen intelligence and steely resolve.

"Officer Fraser –" Laszlo blew out a breath. "Formality seems ridiculous, considering our circumstances. Will you call me 'Victor?'"

Fraser nodded, this time without the world spinning. Still, his muscles twitched randomly and involuntarily. There was an unpleasant buzzing sensation in his neck and pins and needles in his hands and feet. He felt weak and nauseated, but his thought processes seemed to be restored. More or less.

Laszlo was looking at him expectantly. "And you?" he prompted. "What do they call you at home ?"

"Oh, well, Diefenbaker doesn't actually –" he stopped. After a moment, he said, "My father called me 'Ben.'"

"Well, Ben. Despite my current appearance," he said, grimacing. "I don't think I am quite old enough to be your father." He thought a moment. Amazingly, in spite of everything, he had a twinkle in his eyes. "Perhaps, if I had started my ... uh ... love life ... much earlier than I actually did, I just might qualify ... but, then my own father would have had something to say about that." He made a little noise of amusement, then asked, "Were you attending the ball, Ben?"

"Yes, sir." At Laszlo' mock-stern look, he said, "I mean ... Victor."

"As I recall, the illustrious event is always held in March."

"Today is March 15th," Fraser confirmed. On second thought, he realized it was after midnight. "The 16th , that is."

"And, tell me, Ben," he said, casually, "are all the usual suspects in attendance?" His tone was light, but his eyes told a different story. They were pleading. He glanced at Karim, out of the corner of his eye. "All the Consulates? The Swiss? The French? The S-swedes?" He held his breath, his posture rigid with tension.

"Yes," Fraser confirmed, but he knew what Laszlo was asking. For all the man knew, Ilsa could be dead, killed in the conflict that had brought his team to Casablanca or by the villains who had captured him. Should he tell him? Would the knowledge that his beloved wife was nearby, a potential pawn for the kidnapers to use against him, undermine his ability to hold out against the coercion? Or give him hope that might help him hold despair at bay?

There really was only one answer. He lowered his voice to a nearly inaudible level, too low for Karim to hear. Barely moving his lips, he murmured, "Your wife is here."

He instantly regretted his words, as the scant color Laszlo had drained from his face. His intention had been to assure the man that Ilsa was alive and well, and that she trusted Fraser enough to divulge the secret of their marriage. Now, the beleaguered man was swaying in his chair on the verge of a faint.

"Victor!" Fraser looked at the guard, who was staring back at him. "Help him! Please!"

Karim moved slowly, keeping the taser pointed warily at Fraser. He approached Laszlo on the far side, away from the other captive. But, he pulled the slumping man upright, patting his cheeks with his free hand until Laszlo roused. Despite the circumstances, his treatment of the older man wasn't rough. He grabbed a bottle of water from a case against the wall, opened it, and held it to Laszlo' mouth. He drank, spilling some of it.

After a minute, Laszlo said, "Thank you, Karim." He grimaced as he sat straighter, but his color was improved. He looked up at the guard. "Please give Ben water, too."

Karim shook his head.

"Karim." Laszlo' voice was soft, but carried weight.

The young man raised the taser menacingly at Fraser, then circled around the table. He edged closer, brandishing the weapon, before holding the bottle to his lips. Fraser drank thirstily, draining the bottle. "Thank you, kindly," he gasped. The water soothed his dry throat.

"Karim," he began.

The Moroccan looked down at him with an unreadable expression.

"I am a police officer. I can help you – "

Karim backhanded him across the face. Hard enough to rock him and the chair he was taped to. Fraser grunted. His ears rang from the blow, and he tasted blood.

"Karim!" Laszlo shouted.

"That is for making me stun Louis," he snarled.

"Ben!" Laszlo leaned as close as he could. "Ben!"

Fraser lifted his head. Squinting in pain, he regarded Karim without rancor. The younger man glared at him, before returning to his post at the door.

Fraser, swaying woozily, leaned to the side and spat blood. He realized, as he did, that the duct tape binding his right wrist to the arm of the chair was looser than the left. Not much, but there was some give. He clenched his hand into a fist, and concentrated on expanding the gap.

"Are you alright, Ben?"

"Yes," he murmured. "I'm fine." He tried a reassuring smile, but could only wince with the split lip.

Victor anxiously looked him over. Despite everything that the diplomat had endured, everything that had been inflicted upon him in his long captivity, Fraser saw only empathy for a fellow prisoner's pain. He drew a sharp breath as he realized with sudden crystal clarity why the kidnapers had kept him alive. Miguel Ugarte said they needed Fraser's help to move something. What he really meant was they needed him to move some_one. _

"Victor, you must hold out," he urged, not caring if Karim heard. "If you don't – "

" – they will kill me," Victor finished. "I know."

Fraser shook his head. "Both of us." He repeated,"You_ must_ hold out. No matter what they do to me." His gaze locked with his. "You cannot save me by giving them what they want. They will only kill us both."

Victor looked startled, then nodded. "I will," he promised.

The door opened and Louis Renault stepped into the room. He was pale, but otherwise showed no ill effect from the stun gun. He was carrying a cell phone in one hand, and a bottle of champagne in the other. He took one look at Fraser's bloody mouth and rounded on Karim.

"I told you not to touch him!"

"I - I did it for you, Louis," he whined. "It is his fault I zapped you."

Louis made a very French noise of disgust, then strode across the room. He grasped Fraser's chin, forcing his head up. His blue eyes were accusing, but Fraser said nothing.

Renault pulled a handkerchief from a pocket and gently wiped the blood from his mouth and chin, being careful of the cut on his lip. "I am sorry about this."

"I find that hard to believe," he said, coldly.

"I mean it," he protested, caressing his cheek. "I did not want this face ... marked."

Fraser wrenched his chin out of his hand. Over Renault's shoulder, he watched Karim take an involuntary step forward, before recovering his control. He returned to his post at the door, scowling and resentful. Fraser realized that the young man was jealous. Of him. He filed that away. Perhaps, that would prove useful.

"Louis," Laszlo urged. "Let Ben go. You have me."

"Yes, I do, Victor." He held up the cell phone. "Are you willing to make the call now?"

Laszlo hesitated, looked at Fraser, then shook his head.

Fraser steeled himself for another blow, but Renault merely pulled a chair over to the table and sat. He extracted a champagne flute from the pocket of his dinner jacket and set it on the table. He took his time opening the bottle. The cork popped, sailing between the bound men to bounce off the big shipping crate behind them. Renault poured wine, then lifted the glass to the captives in a mock toast. He took a sip, then examined the label appreciatively. Fraser continued to work on loosening the tape that bound his right arm to the chair.

At last, Renault spoke. "How did you know it was a trap? That Karim was waiting inside the door?"

"I'm a Mountie," Fraser replied, in the tone of one stating the obvious.

Renault roared with laughter. "Of course!" he chortled. "Silly of me to ask." He settled back in the chair and regarded the captives.

"Let me tell you a story, gentlemen," he began, conversationally.

"I hope it's short," Fraser said, drily. "I have orders to keep to small talk."

Laszlo snorted a little laugh, and sat up straighter. "That's a forlorn hope, Ben. Louis loves to hear himself talk."

"Really, Victor? And what of your reputation for loquaciousness?" Renault's tone was genial. "It is a shame you missed Walter's speech tonight. He considered that your greatest quality." He sipped wine. "He endowed a chair for you at Loyola. To carry on your 'legacy.'"

"Did he?" Laszlo said, huskily. "That was good of him."

"He would do anything for you, you know," Renault said, looking meaningfully at the cell phone. Laszlo met his gaze, defiantly. Renault's eyes flashed. "Make the call, Victor. Or you will regret it."

Laszlo pressed his lips tightly together.

"What is the story?" Fraser interjected, breaking the growing tension between the men.

Renault moved his eyes to his. The anger evaporated. "Ah, yes. My story," he said, once more the charming raconteur. "It is about a man." He held the flute up to the light and peered at the golden liquid within. "A man who set out to enjoy all that life had to offer him. A _bon vivant_, if you will. Though that phrase is a trifle inadequate." He smiled. "This man would try anything once. But ... as time went by, he found there was nothing new below the sun."

"Under the sun," Fraser corrected automatically.

"Under the sun," Renault repeated. He sipped champagne. "We French have a name for this ... condition. It is called 'ennui.'" He looked at Fraser. "Do you know the word?"

"A feeling of utter weariness and discontent resulting from satiety or lack of interest," Fraser said, flatly.

"Yes," Renault said, pleased. "Exactly!" He sipped wine. "Now, this man had a good friend. A very observant, highly intelligent man. Genius, even. His friend noticed they shared the same predicament. They were of a kind – extraordinary men chafing at the strictures that a hidebound society imposed upon them. This good friend persuaded the man to join him in stepping over a line. A line neither had crossed before."

He flicked his fingertips. "And, poof! Like magic, the ennui disappeared. Life was exciting again ... and lucrative, what with the money-laundering, arms trading, and, when they were found out ... " He glanced apologetically at Victor. "Kidnaping for ransom."

He used his handkerchief to brush at a spot on his dinner jacket, before continuing. "But, even these new pursuits soon grew mundane. The man was becoming bored again." He sipped his wine. "But then, a young woman opened a new door." He snorted derisively at Laszlo' expression. "Oh, it's not what you are thinking, Victor. It was not love. Or lust." He frowned. "Not exactly. He felt nothing for her."

He gestured with his head to the shipping crate behind them. "She had seen something she was not supposed to see. A matter of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. _She_ had to die; _he _had to act quickly. It was nothing ... personal." He paused, running a finger over his lips. "At least, not while she was alive." He stared over their shoulders at the crate, lost in a memory.

Fraser kept his face carefully neutral. His best tactic was to maintain a facade of ignorance. He couldn't reveal that he knew about Martha Gunther, that the investigation of her murder had brought Ray to the ball with him, or that they had known Renault was a villain since finding the Polaroid. There would be an advantage in Renault underestimating the extent of his knowledge and resources. As far as the Frenchman knew, Fraser was alone at the ball, Ray hated him, and Ilsa Lund was a mere bystander. At the thought of Ilsa, he glanced at Victor's strained face. There had to be a way to restore this man to his wife. The alternative was ... unthinkable.

He straightened in his chair, holding himself upright, despite sore muscles. The disturbing story wasn't finished yet. He was about to find out exactly what kind of man Louis Renault was. "Go on," he prompted.

Renault shook himself. "Forgive me, gentlemen. My mind wandered." He drank wine, before returning to his tale. "As I was saying, the young woman had to die. It was simple expedience. But, to his surprise, the man found that he had enjoyed the sensation of killing. The power. It was like ... like ... he had absorbed her very soul. Taken her vitality ... as his own." He continued in a dreamy voice to his captive audience, "He was eager to repeat the experience. To see if that marvelous feeling would recur."

He noted the disgusted expression on Laszlo' face. "Oh, don't look at me that way, Victor. You really are quite ... parochial. It is your least attractive quality."

"And you, Louis, are –"

Fraser cut in before Victor could finish the sentence. "Did he?"

"Did he ... what?" Renault asked.

"Repeat the experience?"

"Oh, yes," he said, delighted to return to his story.

"Wasn't that ... risky?"

"Assuredly," he acknowledged. "But, the man was no fool. He knew he had to keep control. Establish ground rules. To do it a second time, he would need a good reason. A practical reason."

"A good reason for murder? My God, Louis! Listen to yourself!"

Renault ignored Victor's agitation and focused on Fraser. "Now, you understand rules, Constable. I daresay you live your life by them. Is that not so?" He took a sip of champagne.

"Yes," Fraser acknowledged.

"And do you not ever tire of following other people's rules?"

He shook his head. "Without rules, there is chaos."

Renault waved a hand, dismissively. "For the ordinary man, I admit rules are necessary. Otherwise, we would all drive on the wrong side of the road." He leaned forward, his eyes gleaming. "But the extraordinary man transcends the rules of the ordinary. The extraordinary man makes his own rules."

"I too have read Nietzche," Fraser said, his tone indicating exactly what he thought of the author's ideas. "It may interest you to know that Friedrich Nietzsche was committed to an asylum for the insane."

"Yes, he was. Committed by ordinary men with ordinary minds who could not understand how extraordinary he was," Renault said, unfazed. "But, we are not talking of a dead philosopher. The man in my story is very much alive." He paused. "More alive than ever, in fact."

It was obvious that Renault was eager to talk. Fraser needed to know what motivated him. He obliged him. "In your story, why did the man kill a second time? What was the 'good reason?'"

Renault happily elucidated. "Ostensibly, he needed to obscure the reason for the first. The brilliant friend proposed to confuse the authorities with another death in the diplomatic community. But, an apparently random one with no connection among the women who died or the diplomatic pouches they carried. But," he confided, "In reality, it was not random. They had a candidate. His brilliant friend was intimate with a woman in a position of authority, privy to her movements. He even had a key to her home. It would have been so easy to kill her while she slept. The brilliant friend would not be suspected. He had a – what is the expression you police use? – an 'airtight' alibi."

He smiled, indulgently. "But, that was too easy, the man thought. So, he waited until the next morning, when she was carrying valuables. He was bold this time. He did it on a public street in view of a dozen or more people. To his delight, he found the thrill was just as good the second time around. Better, perhaps." He licked his lips, savoring the memory. "Anticipation and risk had sharpened the experience."

His tone turned practical. "With this second woman, he was rewarded handsomely. Financially speaking. But, that was merely a bonus." He tapped his chin with a finger. "No, he didn't do it for the bearer bonds she was carrying." He grinned his charming grin. "But, he kept them, anyway."

Victor stared, horror-struck at his former friend.

"You're sick, Renault," Fraser said.

His tone was that of one calmly stating a fact. But, this perverse rationale for running down Christina Havlek chilled Fraser to the bone. In his career, he had arrested murderers who acted in the heat of strong emotion, or with cold calculation, or callous disregard of another's life. But, this ... this was beyond his ken. As a law enforcement officer, he had studied abnormal psychology, had read about those who killed for the pleasure derived from the act itself. But, they were words in a book. Here, in the basement of the Waldorf-Astoria hotel, he was bearing witness to the birth of a serial killer.

"You may be right," Renault said, not taking offense. "But, no matter." He shrugged, philosophically. Then, he leaned forward, his gray eyes dark as a storm cloud. "The truth is that the man enjoyed it immensely. He hadn't felt that way for a long, long time."

Fraser realized that Renault was trying to share the experience with him. For some inexplicable reason, he wanted – needed – him to understand. His stomach roiled at the thought of trying to get inside Renault's twisted mind. It made him feel ... soiled. But, it was vital. There had to be a weakness he could exploit, something he could use to his advantage. At the least, keep him talking and buy time. He leaned as far forward as his bonds would allow.

"Only two?" He managed to push the words through the tightness in his throat. He already knew the answer.

Renault shook his head, slowly. His voice was low, intimate as he continued. "There was another." He paused. "Now, the purpose of the third deed was still to obfuscate, to confuse the authorities ... the man was ... vulnerable on the unplanned killing, you see." His voice thickened. "But, the third time ... the third time was ... special." He swallowed. "This time, the man played a very deliberate game. He set rules. Increased the stakes, if you will."

He moved even closer, never breaking eye contact. Fraser could smell the wine on his breath as Renault said, "The woman he chose to be his third kill would be a gift to his good friend. You see, she had rejected him." His tone was sneering. "As if _she_ were his superior, when, in fact, she was the one who was not worthy! For her arrogance, and her slight, the man chose her to die."

It took all of Fraser's self-control to hold the gaze as Renault spoke to him in the hushed tones of a confessional. Inspector Thatcher – Margaret – Meg – was not grist for this man's sick fantasies. The urge to turn away in disgust was nearly overwhelming. Fraser deliberately bit down on his split lip. He tasted fresh blood, but the pain focused him. He schooled himself to stillness and held the gaze.

Renault watched the blood well up and stain Fraser's lips. He unconsciously licked his own.

He continued in that soft, intimate tone. "The rules were simple but inviolable. He must do it quickly. The same day as the second woman. In a very public place. And, this time, with his own hands. But, something ... unexpected ... happened."

"There was no death." His eyes stared into Fraser's, intent and unblinking. "He was ... thwarted." His smile was rueful. "Oh, he was disappointed at first. Until he realized, he had discovered something even better." His expression became that of an eager little boy with a secret.

"Can you guess what that was?" he asked, almost shyly.

"Me," Fraser said, flatly.

"You," Renault confirmed. "The dashing knight in shining armor who saved _la belle dame sans merci_." He dropped the third person narrative as he looked hungrily at Fraser. "I saw you there. At the airport. At that moment, I knew I must have you. Body and soul. My ... my Nemesis." His voice shook with strong emotion.

"Louis!" It was Karim. "You cannot mean – !"

Renault ignored the young man. Fraser doubted he even heard him.

"I have you now ... " He licked his lips. "I will break you," he said, in the tender tone of a lover. "And, then I will put you back together. I will ... remake you."

"No." One word, but Fraser's voice rang with quiet conviction in the small room.

Renault smiled, indulgently. "I know you do not believe me now." The smile turned seductive. " But, you _will_ come to want me. As much as I want you."

That was too much for Victor. "For God's sake, Louis," he cried. "You're mad!"

Karim cried, "Louis, say you don't mean it!"

Renault started in surprise, as if he had forgotten that he and Fraser weren't alone.

He continued to ignore Karim. To Victor, he said, "Mad? No, I do not think so. Self-indulgent, perhaps." He gulped champagne. "We need a way to make you cooperate. And now," he added, indicating Fraser, "we have more persuasive means at our disposal." To the Mountie, he confided, "I will love making you scream."

The watch on his wrist chirped a cheerful alarm. Renault drained his glass. He stood, pushing back the chair. It made an ugly screeching sound on the concrete floor. He beckoned to Karim, who eagerly came forward. Renault held out his hand.

"Give it to me," he said, sharply.

Karim surrendered the taser. Renault pressed a button on the cell phone, then held it to his ear. "Miguel? Hold the line." He gave the cell phone to Karim, then Renault went to Fraser.

Fraser, head bowed, shoulders slumped, said, "Please, don't ..." The last was inaudible.

Renault bent his head. He said, softly, "What did you say, Bent – ?"

Fraser's head shot up, clocking Renault in the chin hard enough to stagger him. He wrenched his right arm upward with all his strength, but the tape did not give. The Frenchman reeled, but did not drop the weapon. Karim made a move toward him, but Renault waved him off. He straightened, rubbing his jaw. When he smiled, there was blood. He had bitten his lip.

"Spirited," he said, to his captive. "I like that."

Fraser lifted his chin, defiantly.

Renault pressed the taser to the side of Fraser's neck. He gestured to Karim to hold the cell phone to Victor's lips.

Fraser heard the whine as the taser loaded its charge. It crackled ominously and he smelled ozone. His skin crawled where the device touched his neck. He held very, very still, bracing himself for the shattering violation that was to come. His mind raced, panicked, and he tried to tamp it down. One coherent thought emerged above the chaos. In desperation, he latched on to it.

_Ray will find us. _

Once he thought the words, he couldn't stop them repeating in his mind, like a mantra. It helped calm the trembling inside. He would endure until Ray found him.

"Louis, for God's sake!" Laszlo cried. "This is barbarous!"

"You know what you must do, Victor," he said, calmly. His gaze never wavered as he stared into Fraser's eyes.

"Miguel?' Laszlo croaked into the phone. "Miguel?" he said, more strongly. "This ... this is Victor ... " He cleared his throat. "Louis is mad! Tell him to stop! Please!"

Fraser turned to him. "Don't, sir!" he pleaded. "Don't do – !" '

He never finished the sentence. As a sound of pure pleasure escaped his lips, Renault pressed the button.

Victor Laszlo was a strong man. He did hold out ... until Louis Renault tasered Fraser for the tenth time.


	21. Chapter 21

**CHAPTER TWENTY ONE**

Ray moved with the music automatically, without hearing it. He lifted his left hand over Ilsa's shoulder, raising his wrist high enough to see his watch. "Damn," he said, softly. "What's happening now?"

Ilsa whispered in his ear. "Walter is still at the bar, talking to the British Consul. Miguel is still sitting alone at his Consulate's table." She added in mild rebuke, "Precisely where they were when you asked two minutes ago."

"Sorry," he muttered. They danced in silence for a few minutes. "Heads up. Tuppy coming 'round on the left." As Ilsa started to turn her head, he corrected, "My left."

They smiled brightly at their hostess and the handsome blonde attache from Switzerland as they danced by. To paraphrase Groucho, if Tuppy held the young man any closer, she'd be behind him. The orchestra played a lush arrangement of "Someone To Watch Over Me," but Tuppy chattered over the music, her voice rising and falling in a Doppler effect as she passed. Despite Ilsa's assertion to the contrary, it sure seemed to Ray that she had gotten over her infatuation with Benny.

At the thought of his partner, Ray's brittle smile faded. He had no idea where Fraser was. He had left the ballroom with Renault and neither one had come back. No word, no sign, no semaphore to indicate where they went. Ray had switched his cell phone back on just in case Benny tried to call. To say he was on edge would be a massive understatement. He watched Ugarte like a hawk while worrying about Fraser, Laszlo, and whether a chambermaid would start vacuuming the Chippewa Room.

Ilsa cupped the back of his neck and pulled his head down. "Nuzzle my ear," she demanded.

"Huh?"

"You are scowling far too much for a man dancing with a woman with whom he has been intimate," she said. "People are noticing."

He pulled his head back to look at her. "But, we didn't –"

"_They_ don't know that." She urged his head down.

"Sorry," he muttered, as he buried his face in her sweet-smelling hair. He added unnecessarily, "I hate waiting."

"Really?" she said, drily. "I could not tell."

Since Fraser and Renault left, Ugarte had sat at his Consulate table, alone. Drinking champagne. Talking on his phone. Scribbling in a notebook. Exchanging pleasantries with passersby. But, mostly he just sat, looking cool, calm and collected.

It was driving Ray nuts. In the interim, he had danced twice with Tuppy, while Ilsa had danced with Walter Harrington three times. They had chatted with the billionaire alone or in a group a few times. They were always watching to be sure there was no opportunity for Ugarte to get him alone. It had been easy. The Spaniard hadn't even tried.

The ball would end in a couple hours. Ray knew – he knew it in his bones – that whatever was going down with Victor Laszlo was going down tonight. He glanced at his watch again. If something didn't happen in the next five minutes ... he was gonna have to make it happen. Shake things up. Wipe that placid look off Ugarte's chiseled features. Find Laszlo. Find Fraser.

Somehow.

Ilsa, looking over his shoulder toward the ballroom entrance, tensed in his arms.

"Ray! Louis is back!"

Ray whirled her around so he could see. They watched together as Louis Renault meandered casually through the throng. Just before he reached Ugarte's table, he snagged two champagne flutes from a passing waitress. He handed one to the Spaniard before taking a seat, then clinked his glass against Ugarte's. He drank deeply.

"He looks funny," Ray murmured.

Ilsa followed his gaze. "What do you mean?"

He shrugged, unable to put it into words. But, there was an air about Renault. A cat that ate the canary look. It made Ray very, very uneasy. He turned again to take in the ballroom entrance. No Fraser lurking in the foyer on the lookout for Tuppy Harrington. His heart sank. Where the hell was he? A nasty image of his friend stuffed into a windowseat with a knife stuck in his chest popped into his head, but Ray ruthlessly suppressed it.

At that moment, the cell phone in his pocket rang, making him jump. The ringing noise attracted some nasty looks from the other dancers as he fumbled it out of his pocket. He hurriedly guided Ilsa to the side of the room as he flipped it open.

"Benny?!" he cried, in relief. "Where the hell are –?!" He stopped as an unearthly howl nearly split his eardrum. He pulled the phone away from his ear. "Dief?" he asked, incredulously. "How did you get this number?"

"It's Inspector Thatcher!"

Ray could barely hear her over the high-pitched yowls.

"Stop that, Diefenbaker! I can't hear Vecchio," she said, furiously. "So help me, I'll crate you up and ship you off to Baffin Island so fast your head will spin!" The howls shut off abruptly, like someone turned a tap. "Detective? Are you still there?"

Ray put a finger in his other ear as he strained to make out her words over the orchestra. "Yeah," he said, trying to keep his own voice down. "What's wrong with Dief?"

"I don't know. He won't stop. I've tried everything. Even donuts!" She took a breath, relieved at the silence. "Well, now. Maybe, he's done." At that, Dief started up again. Ray held the phone away again. He couldn't imagine what that was like in person.

Thatcher shouted over the din. "Put Fraser on!" she commanded. "Maybe, he can make him stop!"

"Uh ... he's ... er ... not available just now," Ray said, lamely.

Dief ratcheted up the volume to near hypersonic levels. Thatcher shouted, desperation in her tone. "This is an emergency! Where is he?!"

"Mens room. Something he ate, I think. I'll tell him you called. Bye, Inspector," Ray said, rapidly, then snapped the phone shut. Hopefully, that bought him some time. He couldn't handle the Dragon Lady and White Fang right now.

Ilsa was staring at him. "What was that awful noise?"

"Fraser's wolf," he said. At her look, he added, "Don't ask." They merged back into the throng of dancers, keeping Ugarte and Renault in their sights the whole while.

"They're still just sitting there," Ilsa said, after a minute. She still wore her game face, but frustration and worry were evident in her voice.

Ray turned for a look. Ugarte held his glass of champagne up to the light, peering at it with a connoisseur's eye. Renault tapped his foot in time to the music. Ray moved her in a graceful circle, so he could see the whole room. Still, no Benny in sight.

Ilsa squeezed his hand hard enough to hurt. "Ray," she hissed. "Where's Walter?"

Ray whirled. The British Consul was still at the bar, chatting now with Tuppy's friend, she of the three chins. He whirled again, scanning the ballroom.

Walter Harrington was gone.


	22. Chapter 22

**CHAPTER TWENTY TWO**

"Wake up, son."

Ben opened his eyes. He was lying on his back, looking up into his father's concerned face. Over his shoulder, the sun shone high in a bright blue sky.

"Finally," Robert Fraser said, exasperated. He stood, hands on hips, in full dress uniform and hat. "Didn't you hear me calling?" He reached out his hand.

Ignoring the hand, Ben surveyed his surroundings. He lay in a clearing inside a snowy wood. The sun was high in the sky. He didn't recognize the specific place, but if he had to, he'd guess the Yukon. It felt like home. He sniffed appreciatively, taking in the scents of spruce, pine and fir. He took a deeper breath, filling his lungs with the crisp, astringent air.

Bob said, impatiently, "Take my hand, son."

"We've been through that before, Dad," Ben complained. "It won't work."

"Humor me."

Ben gamely reached up, expecting his hand to pass through his father's spectral limb. To his shock, he met solid flesh. He snatched his arm back as if he had touched a hot stove.

"Told you so," Bob quipped. He extended his hand again.

Ben took it, albeit gingerly. With his father's help, he lurched to his feet. He stood, taking stock of himself. He, too, was in full dress, though minus the hat. He tentatively brushed snow from his trousers. It felt like snow. It felt like trousers. It felt like his legs inside his trousers. He looked at his father, with trepidation.

"Am I ... dead?"

"Not yet," he assured him. "But, if you don't do something about that, you soon will be." At his son's quizzical look, he said, "Don't you hear it? Listen!"

Ben cocked his head. At first, he heard only the wind in the trees. Then, gradually, he detected a strange noise, which grew in intensity until it seemed to surround him. It was like a drum, but the beat was erratic, meandering ... and very disturbing.

"What is that?" he whispered.

"Your heart," his father said.

Ben stared at him, uncomprehending. "The taser," he blurted, at last. The electrical shocks must have disrupted his heart's rhythm. As he formed the thought, the sound became even more irregular.

"Fix it, son," his father urged. "Or, it _will_ be too late."

"How?" he asked, panicked. The noise surged wildly.

"Do that Zen thing you do," Bob suggested.

"It's not Zen, Dad," he began. "More like the neo-Taoist disciplines of – "

"Don't split hairs, Benton. Just do it!"

"Alright, alright," he muttered. He closed his eyes and summoned the mantras he used for meditation. As he chanted the familiar words, he concentrated on slowing his breathing and heart rate. The enveloping noise gradually changed, evened out, became regular. When he heard the familiar lub-dub, lub-dub, lub-dub, he opened his eyes.

His father smiled. "Good boy."

Ben took a cleansing breath, and released it slowly.

"So ... if I'm not dead, where am I?"

His father gave him a strange look. "You don't recognize it?"

Ben turned slowly, executing a 360 degree survey. He shook his head.

"It's the Borderland. You've been here before," Bob insisted. "You really don't remember?"

"No, Dad," he said, shortly. "I'd tell you if I did."

"Huh," his father said, rocking back on his heels. "Last time you were here, you stayed a couple of days."

Ben was astonished. "Days! When was that?"

"When the Yank shot you. I had my doubts you'd ever leave." Bob said, then grinned.

" We had a good time then, son." He scratched his chin. "Funny, you don't remember."

Ben, too, was bothered by the memory lapse, but let the subject drop. "Anybody else here?" He peered through the trees. "Mum? Gran?"

"Nope. Just us." He sighed. "Usually, just me."

"It's beautiful," Ben said, appreciatively. "The Borderland, eh? Between what and what?"

"Damned if I know, son."

Ben threw him an exasperated look. "How long have you been here, Dad?"

"Seems like forever," he mused. "But, I suppose it must be since I died." He frowned. "It's easy to lose track of time here. How long has it been?"

"Eighteen months," Ben said. "At least, I think so," he added, doubtfully. "How long have _I_ been here?" He glanced at his wrist, but his watch was gone.

Bob shot his left cuff. The watch was there, on his wrist. Of course, it _was _his watch. "Not long," he assured him.

"Can I get back?"

"Sure." He pointed at Ben's feet. "Put your boots together ...yes, like that." He said, firmly. "Now, click your heels together three times and say 'there's no place like home, there's no place like ho – '"

Ben had started to move before he caught the glint in his father's blue eyes. "Not funny, Dad!"

"Pretty funny, son," he said, grinning. "You should see your face."

"You're a big help," he grumped.

"You can go back," his father reassured him. "But, what's the rush?"

Ben caught the note of longing and quelled his impatience. "So," he ventured. "What does one do here? In the Borderland."

"Walk. Talk." Bob paused. "Walk some more."

Ben waited. "That's it?"

"Pretty much." He turned and took a couple of steps due south, then looked over his shoulder, expectantly.

Ben fell in beside his father. The crust of snow crunched pleasantly beneath their boots. He realized he'd missed that sound. In the city, what little snow that fell turned quickly to gray slush. After a while, he asked, "Where have you been, Dad? I haven't seen you in almost two weeks!"

"You were busy with double duty. Didn't want to bother you."

"Mmmm." He kicked a pinecone and watched it sail through the air. "Still, I ... uh ... missed you." The last was nearly inaudible.

"Really?" Bob said, surprised.

Ben nodded, without looking at him. He concentrated on kicking another cone. Then, his father did too, driving his cone a bit farther. They made a game of it, competing for distance or accuracy, using the trees as targets.

As he watched his father expertly ricochet a cone off a Douglas fir, a forgotten memory from childhood resurfaced. He was an excited six year old, bragging to his mother as she peeled off his layers of furs, how he had beaten Daddy at "Pinecones." She had effusively praised the young champion, consoled the loser with a kiss, then made hot chocolate to celebrate. He remembered sitting contentedly on the couch between his parents, feet dangling, sipping his treat while they talked over his head.

Ben conceded the game when his father made a spectacular trick shot that ricocheted off two trees before coming to rest against a third. They walked in companionable silence for a couple of miles. Then, he said, "Dad, ... I ... uh ... never told ... " Something brushed his face and he waved a hand at it. "I ... uh ... wanted to say ..." Whatever it was touched his cheek, harder this time, and he jerked, ducking his head.

"What are you flapping at, son?"

"A bug," he said, squinting. He couldn't see it, but he could hear its whine. He pawed at his left ear.

"Impossible. There are no insects here. No animals of any kind." His voice was wistful. "I wouldn't mind a mosquito even, now and then."

Fraser batted the air in front of him. "Well, something's here. It keeps touching my face!"

His father squinted at him. "I don't see any –! " His eyes widened in alarm. "Benton! Wake up!"

"I _am _awake, Dad," he said, still swatting.

"No, you're not!," he said, frantic now. "Wake up, son! WAKE UP, NOW!" He shouted the last as he grabbed Ben's shoulders and shook him violently.

Fraser jolted awake. His father's voice faded into the background, along with the memory of the interlude, while another voice, a man's voice, equally frantic, grew in volume.

"Karim! Stop! Don't shoot!" Victor Laszlo pleaded. "Please! You're not a killer!"

Fraser's vision swam and he blinked rapidly, trying to clear his chaotic senses. He could take in a little at a time. Pain in his cheek as metal pressed into his flesh. A hand holding a gun. A red sleeve. He followed the sleeve upward to a face. The blurred face of a dark-haired man.

"Please, Karim," Victor begged. "Put the gun down!"

With great effort, Fraser forced the disparate images into some kind of order. Karim, for some inexplicable reason, was wearing his tunic. Above the high collar, strong emotion twisted the handsome young face into an ugly mask. His right arm, fully extended, held a gun. As the hand shook, the barrel scraped Fraser's cheek. Karim jumped back in surprise when he noticed Fraser's eyes were open and looking at him.

Fraser was relieved the weapon no longer dug into his skin, but it still was mere inches away. His hold on consciousness was precarious and the gun kept fading in and out of focus. Still, he saw Karim's finger on the trigger. At this range, he couldn't miss, even with the unsteady arm.

"You!" Karim spat the word at him. "You ruined everything!"

In his confused state, Fraser could barely make out the words _as _words, much less take their meaning.

"He wants _you_ now. Not me," Karim howled, eyes brimming with tears. He steadied his elbow with his other hand. "Once you are dead ... he will be mine again!"

"No, Karim! It's not Ben's fault," Victor cried. "Louis is mad! You heard him!"

Fraser forced lips and tongue to form words. He croaked, "Le ... me ... go."

"No, I cannot!"

"C'n ... have ... y'shelf ... " He stopped, exhausted.

Victor picked up his thought and ran with it. "He's right, Karim. If you kill him, Louis will never forgive you. But, if you let him go, say he escaped ... then, you will have Louis all to yourself, again." His voice softened. "And you do not want to kill him, Karim. You know you do not."

Karim stared down at Fraser for a long moment, the gun wavering. He dragged his sleeve – my sleeve, Fraser thought – across his eyes, swiping the tears away. He nodded, once. Fraser held his breath, as Karim lifted his finger off the trigger –

BLAAAAMM!

The sound of the shot in the tiny room was enormous. Fraser jerked violently, then stared down at the red stain on his white shirt. He had time to register surprise that Karim had actually shot him, before he lost his tentative grip on consciousness and spiraled down, down into a darkness he never expected to wake from.


	23. Chapter 23

**CHAPTER TWENTY THREE**

Ray burst into the mens room, startling a man at the urinal. He hurried to the stalls. Only the last one was occupied. In his relief, he didn't think to stop and look under.

"Benny? Open up!" Ray said, as he rapped with his knuckles. "Benny!"

"Vast houden, idioot!"

"Sorry!" he muttered, assuming the first part meant "occupied" in a language he didn't know. He got the idiot part.

"I ... uh ... am looking for Walter Harrington," he said, lamely.

"I assure you, sir, that he is not here," the exasperated voice said in perfect, Dutch-accented English. "Now, if you don't mind ..."

"Sorry," Ray said, again. He ignored the disapproving stare of the man at the urinal and exited the bathroom.

Ilsa met him outside. Her hopeful look was dashed when he shook his head.

She said, quickly, "Richard said Walter left with a waiter."

"Richard?"

"The British Consul. Richard Smythe-Jones. I asked him where Walter went. Richard said a waiter asked Walter to accompany him, that there was a matter that required his attention."

"What waiter?"

"Richard took no notice of him," she said, shrugging helplessly. "He was a waiter."

"Accompany him where?"

"He doesn't know."

Ray thought furiously. It was barely conceivable that there could be some problem about the ball that would require Harrington's input. But, this was the Waldorf-Astoria, the premiere hotel in Chicago and he was Walter Harrington, the billionaire. If there was a problem, the manager of the Waldorf-Astoria would deal with it. If the manager needed to advise Harrington, he would approach their host personally. Not send a waiter.

He smacked his forehead. "I _am _an idioot."

"Ray?"

"The _waiter _is the contact!"

Ilsa looked stunned. "If that's true, then where would he take Walter?" She looked at Ray, with growing excitement. "To Victor?"

"No, I don't think so," he said, slowly. "Harrington is the money." He continued, thinking out loud. "Very gutsy, staging all this in front of so many people." He gestured with his hands, encompassing the ballroom and foyer. "Ugarte and Renault have been making a show of being seen while this goes down. And I fell for it!" He smacked his forehead again. "Idioot!"

Ilsa cut through his self-castigation. "Ray, where would the waiter take Walter?!"

Ray took a deep breath and a page from Benny's book. Think Zen, he told himself, as he let the breath out slowly, before answering her question. "OK ... someplace private ... away from all this fuss." He continued thinking out loud. "Someplace with a phone, so they can prove they have Victor." He frowned in frustration. "There's only a couple of hundred rooms like that in a hotel like this!"

"But," she said, thoughtfully, "Benton said they would need a computer too. For Walter to transfer money."

Ray snapped his fingers. "And his passwords and account numbers, too." He grabbed her shoulders. "Tell me about the penthouse!"

"What?"

"Tuppy said she and Walter had the penthouse suite. Is that a permanent arrangement or just for tonight?"

"Permanent. It's a flat. She keeps a complete wardrobe up there. It's small. Well, small for her." She added, excitedly, "Walter has one of the rooms set up like an office. I saw several computers!"

"Let's go!" Ray said, pulling her with him. "Maybe we can stop him before he pays the ransom!"

She balked. "Wait, Ray." She called across the foyer, "Tuppy!"

Tuppy Harrington had exited the ladies room and was making a beeline back to her Swiss diplomat. She turned when she heard her name.

Ilsa's hand was behind her back, holding her little beaded bag. She flapped it at Ray. "Take it," she muttered, as Tuppy approached.

Ray grabbed it just as Tuppy said, distractedly, "Yes, Ilsa?" She was peering into the ballroom where the attache stood waiting. Appollonia, the Italian girl in the purple dress that Ray had danced with earlier, was talking to him. Tuppy looked daggers at her.

"I left my bag in your suite," Ilsa said, apologetically. "Can you take me up?"

At that, Ray hastily thrust the purse inside his jacket.

Tuppy rummaged impatiently in her own handbag, then extracted a ring of keys and keycards. "Here," she said, thrusting it in Ilsa's hand. She hurried into the ballroom and looped her arm in the attache's, pulling him on to the dance floor as Appollonia looked forlornly after them.

"We needed an elevator key to access the penthouse," Ilsa explained.

Ray grinned in admiration. "You knew she'd give it to you rather than leave Romeo alone with Juliet."

She returned the grin. "Of course."

Ray stashed the handbag in the thick foliage of a potted plant. They hustled through the security stations as fast as possible, confirming in the process that Walter Harrington had indeed come through fifteen minutes ahead of them. Ray shook his head, ruefully. Security was so tight that even their illustrious host was required to sign himself in and out. There was his signature on the page, clear as day. Yet the rule was not applied to the hotel staff. Ray understood the practical reasons for this, but still, it was a chink in the armor.

The guard at the last station acknowledged that Harrington and a waiter had come through, then entered the elevator together. But, as with the British Consul, the waiter had been nearly invisible. The last guard recalled a young man with dark hair. He had the uniform and his employee badge. That was it.

The elevator doors opened with a ping. One old lady with a cane exited excruciatingly slowly. Ray and Ilsa dashed around her. He waved off a couple of guests who tried to enter.

"Take the next one," he said, balefully.

The doors whooshed shut. Ilsa inserted a key in the control panel and turned it. Several new buttons lit up on the display – P at the top, B1, B2 and B3 at the bottom. Ilsa pressed P for penthouse. The car zoomed upward without stopping. Rank has its privileges, Ray thought, grateful for the express. His hand stole automatically to his armpit, before he remembered his gun was at home.

There was a ping and the elevator doors whooshed open on the penthouse level. Ray and Ilsa entered a small marbled foyer. The door of the penthouse suite had an electronic hotel lock. Without knocking, Ilsa slid Tuppy's passkey into the slot. The green light lit, and Ray turned the handle. Putting a finger to his lips, he motioned to Ilsa to keep behind him. He opened the door and stepped into a spacious, tastefully decorated living room.

They found Walter Harrington in the small office off the living room. He sat at the desk, staring blankly at a computer screen. Colorful tropical fish flitted across the screen, bathing his face in garish colors. He was alone.

"Walter?" Ilsa called, softly.

He looked up, a dazed expression on his gray face. He had aged ten years since Ray had seen him downstairs. Ilsa rushed to him, kneeling before the older man.

"Walter! Where are your pills?"

He made a feeble motion toward his breast pocket with a trembling hand. Ilsa reached in and extracted a small gold pillbox. She opened it for him. Ray recognized the tiny white nitroglycerin tablets. His own grandfather used to carry them. He watched her place the tablet under his tongue.

Ray quickly checked the other rooms in the apartment, confirming that they were alone. He got a glass of water from the sprawling kitchen, and returned to the office. Ilsa patted the billionaire's hand, murmuring words of encouragement. Ray set the glass on the desk and pulled up a chair next to the older man.

After a minute, Harrington took a breath, and eased himself back in the chair.

"Better," he said, softly. "Thank you, my dear." He seemed to take in Ray's presence for the first time. "What ... what ... are you doing here?"

Ray answered for her. "Trying to stop you from paying the ransom," he said, bluntly. "But, we're too late, aren't we?"

Harrington started. "I ... uh ... er ... um ...?" He took a sip of the water, then straightened in the chair. "I don't know what you're talking about, uh ... Mr...?"

Ray pulled his badge from his breast pocket and showed it to him. "Ray Vecchio. Chicago Police." He pulled up a chair. "I'm sorry, sir," he said to the stricken man. "I know they told you to keep your mouth shut, and especially not to talk to the cops." Harrington, lips pressed tightly together, regarded Ray warily. "But, there's no time to fool around. I have to ask you to trust me, sir."

Harrington looked at Ilsa. She nodded solemnly. "Please, Walter."

His gaze shifted back to Ray. Ray held himself very still at his frank appraisal.

At last, Harrington spoke. "You Chicago?"

"Born and bred," he said, nodding. "Elmwood Park."

"Southside," Harrington offered.

"Tough place," Ray acknowledged.

He nodded. "The kind that kills you or makes you stronger." After a moment, he asked, "You here alone?"

Ray hesitated. It would take too long to explain about the missing-in-action Fraser. "Yeah."

Harrington looked skeptical. Ilsa, bless her, jumped in. "Ray is a good friend of mine. He was here at the ball as a guest. We stumbled across the kidnaping plot a little while ago." As Harrington started to ask a question, she stopped him. "There is no time, Walter! Please trust us!"

Harrington swallowed his doubts. Ray could see it was difficult for him, but he did it. "OK. I trust you, Ilsa. So ... I'll trust you, young man." He looked chagrined. "Even if I can't remember your name."

Ray repeated his name and rank. "I got questions, sir. I need quick answers." At Harrington's nod, he continued, "The waiter – he approached you with the ransom demand?"

"Abdul, yes. He told me there was a problem, that the manager would meet us up here," Harrington said. "In the elevator on our way up, he showed me a picture of Victor Laszlo." He rubbed his forehead. "One of those instant things."

"A Polaroid?"

"Yes."

"The waiter – Abdul – you know him, ever see him around before?"

He nodded. "Abdul is part of the regular staff here. I don't know him well. But, he's served us many times." He shook his head. "I can't believe he'd be mixed up in something like this."

"What happened after he showed you the picture?"

"He had to help me up off the floor." He looked embarrassed. "Not so tough, eh?"

"You thought your friend was dead. You find out he's alive, but a prisoner." Plus, you're a seventy year old with a heart condition, but Ray kept that thought to himself. He smiled, gently.

"I think you're entitled."

Harrington threw him a grateful look. "Abdul said I would be given instructions on the telephone in the apartment." He frowned. "Sure enough, a few minutes later, this phone rang. Abdul answered it and put me on."

"Did you recognize the voice?"

"In a way. It sounded like Stephen Hawking." He looked amused at Ray's expression. "I mean, whoever it was used one of those electronic devices that Stephen uses. The voice was thoroughly disguised. I couldn't even tell you if it was a man or woman." His voice grew stronger. "I told him I would not give them any money until I spoke to Victor."

"And did you?" Ilsa's voice quavered.

"Yes." He turned to her. "He's alive, Ilsa. I asked him things only he would know."

"How did he sound?" she asked, eagerly.

"Upset." He snorted. "That sounds stupid. Of course, he was upset." He tried to explain. "Victor has been in tight spots before. It takes a lot to rattle him." He frowned. "And, he _was_ rattled."

Ilsa bit her lip.

"You have no doubt that it was Victor Laszlo?" Ray asked.

"None whatsoever," he said, firmly.

Ray leaned forward. "Did they put Laszlo on right away? I mean, did you have an impression he was right there with Stephen Hawking? Or were they conferencing him in on another line?"

"No, he was there, alright," he said, emphatically. "I do a lot of conference calls, Ray. This was not one of them. I'd swear to it." He paused, in thought. "They were using a cell phone. There was that little pause you get, that bit of dead air, before the response. If you know what I mean."

Ray did know. "How long did you talk to Victor?"

"Two minutes, tops. Just long enough to confirm that it _was_ my old friend. Then, Stephen Hawking came back on to give me instructions on paying the ransom. Abdul had an account number typed on a piece of paper." He took a breath. "I transferred ten million dollars to a bank in the Caymans." He blew out the breath. "Modern technology. The entire transaction took ninety seconds."

"Where's the paper?" Ray asked, looking around the desk. "And the Polaroid?"

Harrington pointed to a shredder in the corner. "Abdul shredded them." He tapped his temple. "But, the account number is up here."

"You'd better write that down, sir," Ray suggested. "Just in case."

"In case I croak, you mean," he challenged, with a raised eyebrow.

"Yeah," he said, bluntly.

Harrington barked a humorless laugh. "I will."

"What did they tell you to do after you transferred the money?" Ray asked.

"Stay here twenty minutes, then return to the ball. Carry on as if nothing happened." He snorted, ruefully. "Stephen Hawking will call me here at dawn to tell me where Victor is." He grimaced. "If I tell the police, or anyone else, even my wife ... Victor will die." He added. "They said they are watching me and will know if I violate their instructions, even a little." He looked shrewdly at Ray. "But, you already knew. How?"

"I'll tell you later, I promise," Ray said. He hesitated, but Harrington needed to know the truth. He added, reluctantly, "Even if you do everything exactly as they told you to, it's a million to one that they will return Victor alive. You know that, don't you, sir?"

Harrington's expression was bleak. "I know." He swallowed hard. "But, I will give Victor that million to one shot." He fixed Ray with a steely gaze. "And so will you. We are _not_ calling in more police."

Ray held the gaze. He could call Welsh and get the building surrounded. But, even without the jurisdictional issues and diplomatic immunity problems, that would take time. Time that Victor Laszlo didn't have.

Harrington misread his silence. "I will have my security people detain you by force, if necessary," he said, in an iron voice.

"We both know that the kidnapers will kill Laszlo if they see any movement by police or your security people," Ray said, equally steely.

Harrington looked surprised that Ray was conceding the point without argument.

"But, I'm here undercover," he continued. "The bad guys think I'm another bad guy."

Ilsa nodded, vigorously. "They do."

"You know who they are?" Harrington asked, incredulous.

"We can't tell you, so don't ask," Ray said, shortly. "But, one of them is with Laszlo wherever they have him stashed. He's the failsafe." He played his trump card. "I think they're holding him here. In the hotel. If we're very, very lucky, I might be able to find him in time." He used the billionaire's words against him. "It's a million to one shot, but don't we have to give Laszlo that chance?"

Harrington paled, then nodded. "What can I do?"

"Can you tell me anything else about the waiter? Last name? Where he lives?"

Harrington looked blank. "He's good with a Caesar salad," he said, helplessly.

Ray thought furiously. Benny's theory that the kidnapers were holding Laszlo in the hotel had legs. But, he and Fraser had missed one crucial fact. They should have known there was an inside man. Maybe more than one. The kidnapers would need an intimate knowledge of the hotel, its layout and workings, plus the ability to move around without attracting attention. The uniformed waiter could come and go, disappear like a puff of –

"Does he smoke?" Ray blurted.

"Eh?"

"Does Abdul smoke?"

"He said he didn't," Harrington said, slowly. "But, he reeked of cigarette smoke. I mean, _reeked_." He licked his lips. "I haven't smoked in twenty years, but that smell ... I asked him for a cigarette but the lying rat bastard said he didn't smoke."

Ray and Ilsa shared a meaningful look.

"What?" Harrington asked.

"Nothing," Ray said. "Sir, listen to me carefully. You have to do exactly what they told you to." He checked his watch. "Wait out the time, then return to the party." He leaned closer. "This is very important. You can't let on that you talked to me or Ilsa about this. If anyone asks, we came up here to find Ilsa's handbag. We found it and we left. That's all you know." He grabbed the man's arm and squeezed it. "You got that?"

"You and Ilsa came for her bag, and left," Harrington repeated.

"I'm Ilsa's friend. I'm not a cop." Ray continued.

"Understood," he said, firmly.

"Let's go," Ray said, getting to his feet. He gave Ilsa a hand up.

She kissed Walter's cheek. "Thank you for being Victor's friend."

Harrington's eyes filled and he glanced quickly away.

At the door to the living room, Ray turned back. "Do you have a gun, sir?"

Harrington quirked an eyebrow. "As a matter of fact, I do."

"Give it to me."

"What kind of Chicago cop doesn't carry a gun?" he asked, suspiciously.

"An undercover one who had to get past your security," he retorted.

"Oh." He pulled a key ring from his trousers pocket, inserted a small key in a desk drawer and opened it. He withdrew an automatic and handed it to Ray without further comment.

Ray took the Walther-PPK, checked the load, latched the safety, and dropped it in the pocket of his dinner jacket. It ruined the line of the Armani, but, paradoxically, for the first time this evening, he felt fully dressed. "Thanks."

"Do you have another, Walter?" Ilsa asked, grimly.

"Not here," he said, apologetically. "Sorry."

At Ray's look, she said, haughtily, "I am a very good shot."

On that note, they left the suite, pulling the door firmly shut behind them. Ilsa summoned the elevator with the key. When the doors opened, she inserted the key in the panel, turning it counterclockwise. The extra buttons lit up.

"Where are we going, Ray?" she asked, over her shoulder.

"I don't suppose I can talk you into going back to the ballroom?"

"No, you can't," she said, in a tone that brooked no argument.

"OK, but remember I'm the cop here. You do what I tell you," he said, sternly.

"Yes, Ray." She said it meekly, but her expression was fierce.

Ray was examining the panel, but there was no telltale clue to indicate where the waiter went. At least, none that he could discern. Benny could lick the buttons and know what the man had for lunch, much less which floor he chose. But, he wasn't Benny. Besides, for all Ray knew, Abdul might be heading for the kitchen for a tray of canapes. They had to find the victim, not the perp. Ray's hand hovered over the panel. Time, he knew instinctively, was running out.

Instinct. That was all he had to go on. He offered a silent prayer to St. Anthony, patron saint of lost things, and pushed B3. If Laszlo was in the hotel, the bad guys would use the hidden places to conceal their human treasure. B3, the lowest level, was the furthest from this lofty peak that they could go. As good a place as any to start.

As the doors closed on the penthouse, Ilsa leaned into him. He put his arm around her shoulder and held her close for sixty three floors, taking as much comfort from her as he gave.


	24. Chapter 24

**CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR**

A double ping announced level B3. The doors of the elevator whooshed open. Ray, gun held up in a two-handed grip, nodded to Ilsa at her position at the control panel. She removed the special key, and depressed the "Doors Open" button. Ray exited cautiously, gun extended. He was in a vestibule of concrete walls and floor painted institutional green. Bright fluorescent light overhead illuminated the entire area. It opened on to a corridor of the same ugly color. He beckoned to Ilsa. She stepped daintily into the cool dank space, holding her gown up off the floor. The elevator doors whooshed closed behind her. The sound of its mechanism reverberated in the small space as it ascended to the lobby.

Ray peered into the corridor. He looked left and right quickly, before ducking back. The hall was empty in both directions. He turned back to Ilsa. She was bending over, reaching for something on the floor. She straightened and held a small object up to the light.

Ray squinted. It looked like a penny.

"It's Canadian," she said, waving it triumphantly.

A wave of relief swept over Ray. He was on the right path. He hadn't realized until that moment how scared he'd been that he wasn't.

Ilsa joined him. He poked his head out again. The corridor was still empty. He searched the floor for another trail marker. There was none.

"Which way?" Ilsa whispered.

Ray didn't answer. Both directions looked equally dismal, the decor matching the smells of mildew, concrete dust and some kind of industrial chemical. They might as well flip the Canadian coin. For no particular reason, he chose left and stepped out, Ilsa following closely. He had only gone a few paces when he stopped so suddenly that she bumped into him.

"Sorry," he muttered. "Do you smell that? That chemical smell?"

She sniffed. "It smells like ... chlorine."

He retraced his steps, sniffing all the while. "It's stronger over here, isn't it?" She joined him, sniffed and concurred. "Strasser's shoes were wet and smelled like chlorine," he reminded her. "This way."

They proceeded carefully down the long corridor. It was lined with locked doors, with nothing to distinguish them. Ray took heart from the increasingly strong smell of chlorine. Then, approximately fifty feet on, a thin puddle of water pooled in the center of the floor, extending into the distance. Ray spotted the next marker there, another Canadian penny. They moved on, buoyed by the confirmation. As careful as they were, their footsteps echoed off the hard surfaces. They found a third penny, and then a fourth. Ten feet from that last marker, a door.

Ray signaled a halt. The door was metal, windowless, indistinguishable from the dozen others they had passed, except ...

Riddle: When is a door not a door?

Answer: when it's a jar.

He signaled Ilsa to stay back. She flattened herself against the corridor wall, out of sight of anyone in the room. Gun at the ready, Ray used his foot to ease the door open further, keeping his head and torso out of the line of fire. He waited a moment, straining to hear. Nothing. He snaked his arm around the jamb, fumbling for a light switch. He found it, flicked it and ducked back. Fluorescent fixtures hummed and flickered to life. A different odor drifted out of the room, overlaying the chlorine smell of the corridor.

Cigarette smoke.

Ray took three short quick breaths, then spun on his heel and darted into the room, gun leading the way. No one there. He whirled, checking behind the door. Ditto. He was dimly aware of a metal table, some chairs, a pile of clothes on the floor against the wall, but he focused on a big wooden crate at the back of the room. He approached cautiously. To his relief, it was flush with the wall; no one could hide behind it. The crate was nailed shut. He recognized it as the crate in the Polaroid, plastered with stickers indicating its diplomatic status.

Ray let out the breath he didn't know he'd been holding. He did a slow survey of the room, starting with the dark corner behind the door. Crates of bottled water, a stack of canned goods, a portable commode, the furniture, the pile of clothes –

Not clothes. A man. A dark-haired man. A dark-haired man in a red tunic. He sprawled in a crumpled heap, face to the wall.

He wasn't moving.

"Benny!"

He dashed to his friend, skidding on his knees beside him. Fraser's hair was soaked with blood. It gleamed wetly in the glare of the overhead fluorescents.

Ray gripped his shoulder and gently turned him.

Benny's face was ... gone. The bullet had entered the back of his head and exited the front. His face was a mass of blood, bone and brain matter.

"Oh! Oh, no!"

Ray looked up to see Ilsa, white as a ghost, staring in horror at the body. The body that was his friend. Ray's heart squeezed so hard it actually hurt in his chest. He released his grip. Benny's head slumped, hiding the terrible ruin of his face.

A roiling wave of emotion broke over Ray like a tsunami. It took all his strength not to punch the wall until his fists bled. Or, throw his head back and howl in anguish. His eyes widened in sudden comprehension. Dief! How the hell had he known?

He screwed his eyes shut. If he started punching or howling, he knew he'd never stop. He couldn't think about Benny. Not now. Now, he had to hold it together ... find Laszlo. That's what Benny would want him to do. His face twisted with hatred. And, he would find the bastards who did this. He would find them ... and make them pay.

He grabbed the edge of the metal table, and hauled himself to his feet. He wobbled, and took a deep breath to steady himself.

"Oh, Ray," Ilsa said, brokenly. She clutched his arm, resting her face against his shoulder. He shook her off.

"Not now, Ilsa." It came out more harshly than he intended. But, he was barely holding it together.

She nodded and wiped her nose on her sleeve.

Ray examined the duct tape dangling from the arms and legs of two of the chairs. The tape had been cut with a sharp implement. A syringe, its plastic barrel empty, lay on the table. Clear liquid was pooled there, and on the floor around one chair. He dipped a finger in the puddle on the tabletop. _This one's for you, Benny, _he thought with a pang, as he touched it to his tongue. As far as he could tell, it was just water.

Ilsa put into words what he was thinking. "Victor and Benton were tied to the chairs." Ray nodded. "They drugged Victor and took him with them. But, Benton ... " she stopped.

He said nothing. It was time to go. He took one last look at the body. Benny looked so small lying there, his larger than life presence shrunken in death. Unbidden, an image flashed in his mind. Fraser, standing tall and straight in the Chippewa Room, quoting a play Ray had never heard of.

_Cover his face, mine eyes dazzle, he died young._

Ray set the gun on the table, and unbuttoned his jacket. To hell with the crime scene. He spread his Armani reverently over the ruined head and torso. Ray knelt, and laid a hand on the still shoulder. "I'm sorry, Benny," he whispered. "I'll be back as soon as I can."

The crimson tunic peeked out from under the Armani. It had bunched up over Benny's hips when he fell. The Mountie was so particular about the uniform, Ray couldn't leave it like that. He tugged it down, smoothing it over the dark trousers. At that moment, something clicked in his head. He stared at Benny's sprawled legs. These aren't the pumpkin pants, he thought, dully. And, where are his boots?

He snatched up the Armani.

"Ray?"

Ignoring Ilsa, he grabbed the stiff's still-warm hand and brought it to his face. It was small; the fingers long, narrow, stained with nicotine. Those aren't Benny's pants, he thought, sluggishly. And the shoes are definitely not Benny's boots. He looked at the limp hand he was holding. And, this ... this is not Benny's hand. Therefore –

"It's not Benny!" he cried, leaping to his feet. He grabbed Ilsa by the shoulders and planted a big fat kiss on her mouth.

"Wh-what?" She managed, stealing a glance at the body. Horror, pity and hope flitted across her face in rapid succession.

"It's Karim!" he nearly shouted, before catching himself. "Come on," Ray urged. He shouldered into the dinner jacket, snatched the gun off the table, and poked his head out the door. He checked both ways, before ushering her ahead of him. He turned out the light and pulled the door shut tight. That was the best he could do on preserving the crime scene without a key.

He studied the floor outside the room. Thanks to the puddle, wet footprints painted the concrete floor. If Benny was here, he could tell him innumerable details about the shoes and the people who wore them. Ray could discern only one thing, but that was all he needed to know.

They went thataway!

He looked up at Ilsa. She slipped off her high heels. Then, Ray ran, as if he had wings, Ilsa right behind him.


	25. Chapter 25

**CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE**

Twenty minutes before ...

The roiling avalanche had him in its maul. He tumbled, over and over, in a world that was cold and dark. Snow packed his eyes, nose, ears, mouth, choking him. He moved his arms in a swimming motion, trying to claw his way up to the surface. He was losing the battle, but it was not in his nature to give up. He reached up, flailing wildly, trying to grab hold of something, anything to keep himself from being buried alive ...

Stabbing pain ... biting, sharp. He tried to jerk his arm back, but something had turned the tables on him, grabbing him instead. He cried out as teeth tore into his skin. Words pierced through the gray fog of his thoughts. But, they were sounds only, disjointed, meaningless.

"Merde! Stop ... or ... break ... needle! ... still! Make ... stop ... else!"

All he knew was that IT had him ... a wild beast ... IT held him, hurt him as he fought against IT with all his strength.

"Ben! List ... to ... Ben!"

The words began to connect, coalesce. He was straining to understand, when the beast bit into him again. He cried out, jerking his arm.

"Ben! Ben! Be still, Ben! Listen to me."

He knew the voice, tried to understand the words.

"That's right, Ben," the voice soothed. "Open your eyes, now. Look at me." A pause. "Good. Very good, Ben."

Fraser blinked and blinked again. A face filled his field of vision. A bearded dirty face with a kind smile.

"Do you know me, Ben?"

The face wavered.

"Stay with me, Ben. Look at me. What's my name?"

He gathered his strength to formulate words. He tried and failed and tried again. "V-vic," he managed.

"Right! I'm Victor." He stared intently into his eyes. "Ben, you have to trust me. Do you trust me, Ben?"

"Y-yesh." His tongue felt too big for his mouth, and in the way of his teeth.

Victor swallowed. "Louis is going to give you a shot. He won't hurt –"

He stopped talking because Fraser had finally registered that Louis Renault was holding his arm down against a metal table with one hand, while the other held a syringe poised above it. The flesh in the crook of his arm bled where the needle had ripped the skin.

Panic gave him volume. "NO!" He was too weak to break Renault's grip, but his frantic movement prevented him from administering the shot. "NO DRUDGSH!"

"Victor!" Renault snarled. "Make him stop! Or I _will _end this now!"

Victor spoke, quickly, "Ben, listen to me! Ben!"

Fraser lifted his head a painful few inches, but continued to struggle.

"The drug will help you," Victor said. "Counter the effects of the taser stuns. Trust me, Ben. Please."

Fraser heard the words but couldn't make much sense of them. He thrashed in the chair. "No drugsh! No!"

"Yes, Ben! You must take the drug so you can walk. Because if you cannot walk, Louis will shoot you." Victor leaned as far forward in the chair as his bonds allowed. "He will kill you, Ben. Unless you can walk. The drug will help you walk. Trust me, Ben."

Renault said, "I ... I do not want to ... to kill you, Benton. But ... I will, if you do not let me do this."

Fraser was at an utter loss. He trusted Victor. He didn't trust Renault. Yet, both men were saying the same thing. In his taser-induced confusion, he couldn't process the conflict.

"Son!"

Fraser looked beyond Victor's concerned face. His father stood behind the seated man. Robert Fraser wore the red serge, but the tunic was on backwards. One foot was clad in a sneaker, the other in a snowshoe. He was holding a hockey stick. A pith helmet perched on his head.

"Look at me, son!" he said, gesturing disgustedly at his state of dishabille.

"Yer ... a mesh," he lisped.

"I know, Ben," Victor agreed, his face soft with compassion.

"No, _you're_ the mess." His father's expression matched the diplomat's. "Let him stick you, son," he said, gently. "You have no choice."

At that, Fraser gave up the fight. He muttered his consent, then held very still as the Frenchman, with surprising competence, flicked his finger at the crook of his arm, raising a vein. He slid the needle into it with barely a prick, and depressed the plunger. When he was done, he bent Fraser's elbow up. "It will take a few minutes," he said, patting his cheek before moving away.

Fraser slid his eyes around. He was still in the storage room in the basement. Both his legs and right arm were still lashed to his chair with duct tape. The front of his shirt was red with blood. It startled him, but after a moment, he was fairly confident it wasn't his own. He remembered being tasered repeatedly ... Renault and Karim would rouse him with an ammonia capsule under his nose, would wait until his eyes gained some focus, his thoughts start to clear, and then the electrical charge would hit him again. He had no idea of the count of stuns or the passage of time since he lost consciousness. There had been a reason for Renault's actions, besides his evident delight at inflicting pain ... something to do with the man beside him ...

Then, it all came rushing back. They wanted Victor to talk to Harrington, urge his rich friend to pay the ransom. He remembered Victor shouting, "I'll do it! Stop torturing him, Louis! I'll do it!" After that, nothing.

The drug was working. It must be some kind of stimulant. His heart raced, his face flushed. It felt like all his blood was rushing to his head.

He looked up to see Victor studying him. "I'm sorry, sir."

"Sorry? Whatever for, Ben?"

"My fault," he said. "You made the call."

He shook his head. "No, Ben. Not your fault at all."

Fraser straightened in the chair. He felt incredibly ill, weak, battered and bruised, but some small measure of strength was returning to his body. His head was unscrambling too. He could think again, though his nerve endings were jangling, making him twitch and grimace involuntarily. And, beyond the physical effects, he felt emotionally raw. Violated.

He shot a dark look at Renault's back. For the first time, he registered that the Frenchman was talking to someone on a cell phone, had been for a few minutes now. He berated himself for not noticing. He pushed the feelings of anger and humiliation deep, deep down. It was difficult, harder than it should have been, but at last he succeeded. He tuned in to the conversation at last.

"– have to leave now. No choice." His tone grew angry. "Don't argue, Miguel! I had to do it!"

Fraser kept his voice low. "The ransom? It _was_ paid?"

"Yes," Victor confirmed.

"Then ... why are we still alive?"

"I am wondering that myself," he whispered. "But, I do not think it is a good idea to remind him of that." He smiled. "Do you?"

"No." Fraser tried to return the smile, but it pulled open his split lip.

Renault said, brusquely, into the phone. "Plan Z, then. I will meet you." He flipped the phone shut and shoved it in his pocket. He knelt next to Fraser. "Are you feeling better, Benton?" Incredibly, his voice held a note of ... caring.

"Yes." His pronunciation was clear and crisp. The slurring was gone.

Renault pressed his thumb to the pulse point in Fraser's neck. Then, he grasped his chin and lifted his eyelids one at a time, peering into them. Fraser held still despite his deep repugnance at the intimate contact. Renault seemed satisfied with his vital signs.

"You can understand what I say, now?"

"Yes."

"Good." He moved to the empty chair across from Laszlo and Fraser and sat, somewhat heavily. He removed a gun from his pocket, not the taser, but a Glock 9 mm, and showed it to them. "We are going out that door in a moment, gentlemen. Then, we will walk down a corridor until we come to another door. You will do everything that I tell you to do. Without hesitation. Without question. This gun will be pointed at one of you at all times." He paused. "And, I am an excellent shot. Isn't that right, Victor?"

"Yes," he confirmed.

Renault continued, "Do not think that I will not shoot both of you, if I need to." He nodded at Laszlo. "Walter was quite cooperative. You know he paid your ransom. We do not need you alive for that purpose anymore." Victor nodded in grim understanding.

"And you, Benton," he said, pointing the gun at Fraser. "While I would much prefer to keep my Nemesis alive ... " He licked his lips. "Nonetheless, I know my priorities. Escape is my watchword, now. If I can take you with me ... well, that would be delightful. But, if I cannot ..." He peered at Fraser. "Do you believe me when I tell you I will kill you? Not without regret, mind you. But, I will do it."

"Of course I believe you," he said, coldly. "You're a killer."

"Ah, my spirited Mountie is back, I see," he said, pleased. "Now, that we understand each other..." He took a utility knife from his pocket, and slashed the tape binding Victor's right hand to the chair. Then, he fetched two bottles of water from the crate against the wall. He opened them, and set them on the table.

"Drink," he ordered.

Fraser picked up the bottle in his shaking left hand. He spilled half on the table and down the front of him, but drank the rest, thirstily. When he came up for air, he saw that Victor had drained his bottle. Renault removed the empties before placing the utility knife in Victor's free hand.

"Use this on yourself, first," he instructed. "Then, Benton. Then, put the knife back on the table and raise your hands."

He stepped back, pointing the gun at Victor. "Proceed."

Victor made short work of freeing himself. He stood, steadying himself with a hand on the table, before working on Fraser's bonds. When finished, Victor obeyed instructions, setting the knife on the table and lifting his hands high. Louis returned the knife to his pocket. He turned the gun on Fraser.

"Get up, Benton."

Fraser gripped the arms of the chair and tried to rise. He failed. _Do or die,_ he told his traitorous legs, and tried again. The taser and the loss of circulation from the tape had taken its toll; his legs jerked and spasmed, but refused to obey. Then, Victor was there. He held out his hands.

"No, sir," Fraser gasped, as he struggled to rise on his own. "I can do it," he said, glancing at Renault. He did not want the diplomat to put himself any further at risk on his behalf.

"Victor," Renault warned. "If he can't walk – "

"Shoot me, or shut up, Louis," he retorted. "But, I _will _help him."

Renault was silent. Fraser still hesitated.

"Take my hands, now!" Laszlo barked at him.

Fraser took his hands. He was dismayed at how weak his hold was. But Victor gripped him firmly, grunting as he pulled him to his feet. Fraser staggered, nearly collapsing. But, Victor got an arm under his shoulder and levered him up. Breathless and pale, he leaned heavily on the older man's bony shoulder. His weakness embarrassed him; he was as unsteady as a newborn foal. The room spun, then the vertigo passed. He regained his balance, took a deep breath, and murmured assurances to a skeptical Victor that he was alright.

They took a tentative step, then another. The pins and needles sensation was agonizing, but brief, as the circulation was restored to his legs. Fraser took more of his own weight, though he still needed Victor's support. They turned as one toward the door. That's when he saw the body on the floor. Karim ... wearing his red serge. Victor tightened the grip around his waist, and urged him forward. Fraser obeyed without speaking. They continued their slow progress across the room.

"Open the door, slowly and step out into the corridor," Renault said. "Turn right and keep walking." He waved them forward and followed, snatching up the roll of duct tape.

They did as instructed. The smoky smell of the room – gunpowder and cigarettes – was replaced by the bromine and mildew odor of the long corridor. Fraser's boots splashed in the thin puddle in the center of the concrete floor as he and Laszlo made their tentative way forward, with Renault bringing up the rear.

Step by step, Fraser grew stronger and steadier, though still woefully short of normal. Whether this was due to moving limbs that had been too long restrained or the drug's increasing effect, or both, he didn't know. He tried to pull away from Victor's support, or at least take some of his weight off the older man, but he was having none of it.

"Conserve your strength, Benton," he murmured. "When that injection wears off ..." He stopped. "Well, you'll see," he said, ominously.

Fraser glanced over his shoulder. For a man with such a twisted mind, Renault was a surprisingly cautious, capable captor, keeping a safe distance away. He took the support that Victor offered, without argument. At the end of the long hallway was a set of double doors, with a lighted EXIT sign overhead. He had no idea where they were being taken, or even why they were still alive. But once they left the hotel ...

He stumbled. Victor caught him, murmuring words of encouragement. They tottered on.

Renault called a halt before they reached the doors. By this point, Fraser was visibly sagging in Victor's arms. He stood, panting, as Renault sidled cautiously around them. He kept the gun aimed at them while he pushed the door open a crack with his backside. He looked both ways, then pushed the door further. The overhead mechanism clicked and it stayed open. Fresh air washed over Fraser. It cleared the stink of mildew and cigarette smoke from his nostrils. Temporarily, anyway. He and Victor reeked of Gauloises.

Renault made another quick survey through the open door, then stepped back inside. Fraser was gasping short shallow breaths and struggling to stay upright.

"Louis," Laszlo pleaded. "Help me – "

"He walks or he dies," Renault said, regretfully. He took up position behind them, and ordered them through the open door.

They took a step, then two, then Fraser swayed, alarmingly.

"Ben!" Victor exclaimed. Fraser staggered, as his eyes rolled up in his head. Victor lost his grip on his waist. Fraser reaching out blindly, drove the older man backward. Victor lost his balance and fell on his rear. Fraser dropped to hands and knees, his arms shaking with the strain. Renault took a step toward him when Fraser lashed out backward with his left leg. He missed his intended target, catching Renault, hard, in his upper thigh instead. The Frenchman's leg buckled. With a cry of pain, he dropped to one knee. Fraser pivoted, wrenching the gun from Renault's grasp and aiming it in his face. The Frenchman stared down the barrel, then slowly raised his hands.

It took all of Fraser's self-control to keep the gun steady. He was still on one knee, but didn't think he should stand. Not just yet, he told himself, as he drew a deep breath.

Renault was looking at him with an odd expression. "My Nemesis," he said, proudly. "You will not shoot me," he said, with confidence.

Fraser narrowed his eyes. "You shot me ten times with a taser."

"Eleven," Renault admitted, sheepishly. "I couldn't resist one when you were unconscious."

Fraser tightened his grip on the gun, and rose to his feet, never letting his gaze or his arm waver. It wasn't easy. Every muscle in his body was protesting, and his head pounded with every beat of his heart. He motioned for Renault to stand. "Start walking. Back down the corridor." He called over his shoulder. "Victor, are you OK?"

"Yes, Ben." Fraser heard him struggle to his feet. He regretted shoving the older man, but he had to get him out of the line of fire. Fortunately, Laszlo seemed unhurt.

"Stay behind me," he told him. Renault hadn't moved. He used the Frenchman's own words. "Walk or die, Renault."

"No," he replied, calmly. "You won't shoot me, Benton. I know you too well."

"You don't know me a 'tall," he said, dismissively. "I _will_ shoot you if you don't start walking." For a moment, Fraser was unsure if he was bluffing or speaking the literal truth. Then, he realized he was indulging in a fantasy, probably due to the drug coursing through his bloodstream. He wouldn't ... couldn't shoot a prisoner ... at least, not to kill. Maybe, a flesh wound ... or a couple of zaps with the taser ...

He shook his head, briskly, dispelling the satisfying image of Renault writhing on the concrete floor. Glorying in another's pain was what the Frenchman wanted him to feel.

"Don't test me, Renault," he warned. "I am not quite ... myself ... at the moment." _Then, who are you?_ he thought, feeling somewhat at sea. An image of Francesca Vecchio, in a church of all places, popped into his head. "Move it, or lose your foot," he said, channeling her fire.

Renault looked startled, then recovered his aplomb. "No," he said, shaking his head. "You _won't _shoot me ... because my very good friend is now holding his gun to Victor's head." He locked his gaze with Fraser's. "And I know you won't let him pull that trigger."

"Victor?" he called, without turning.

"I'm sorry, Ben," he said, regretfully. "I did not hear him coming."

Fraser risked a quick glance. Miguel Ugarte, his tuxedo looking elegantly at odds with the gun he held pressed to Victor's temple, inclined his head in respect.

"Give the gun to Louis," he said.

"Don't, Ben!" Victor cried. "He'll kill you!"

"_I _will kill Victor if you don't," Ugarte said, matter of fact.

Fraser hesitated only a moment, then turned the gun, butt end first and did as instructed. Renault pointed it at him, backing up to put a cautious distance between them.

"Kill him, Louis," Ugarte commanded.

"No," Renault said, never taking his eyes off Fraser.

"Louis," Ugarte complained. "You were supposed to kill him in the storage room!"

"I know, Miguel," he acknowledged. "But, I want to keep him."

"He is a police officer, Louis. Not a puppy." His tone was patient, as if he were talking to a child. "It is too dangerous."

Renault shrugged. "I can keep him under control."

"I said, 'no.'" Ugarte turned his own gun on Fraser.

Fraser tensed, ready to dive for the weapon now that it was no longer aimed at Victor's head. He knew he had no chance of succeeding, but at least he'd go down fighting.

"Wait, Miguel!" Renault wasn't giving up just yet. "You can have Victor!"

"What?" Ugarte didn't lower the gun, but raised questioning eyebrows.

"You keep Victor," Renault said, quickly. "You can have all of the money when you sell him," he said. "Provided, I keep the Mountie."

Ugarte hesitated. "You'd give up another million for him?" He flicked his eyes over Fraser. "He's not worth it, Louis!"

"He is to me," Renault said, looking hungrily at Fraser.

Ugarte was silent for a moment, gun fixed on Fraser. "To be clear," he said, finally. "I keep the entire amount I get for Victor in the auction. No matter how much."

"Deal." Renault looked amused. "And just so we're clear, Miguel ... I meant the bounty only. I still get my share of Walter's payment."

"Deal," Ugarte echoed, and moved the weapon back to Laszlo' head. "Tie them up."

Fraser and Victor exchanged glances. He knew the older man understood the exchange. This was a "two-fer," as Ray would say. Extorting the ransom from Walter Harrington was only part of the plan. He could imagine the type of people Ugarte would "auction" Victor Laszlo to. In making peace around the world, the peacemaker had made enemies. What wouldn't they pay for revenge? The financial genius was simply maximizing the return on investment.

Renault picked up the roll of duct tape. He tucked the gun in his pocket and sidled around Fraser. He could only watch as Victor's wrists were bound tightly together with several layers of tape. At least, his hands were in front of him, which was more comfortable for him. When he was finished, Renault gave his gun to Ugarte to hold.

"Not taking any chances with my trickster," he said, playfully, as he approached. Fraser didn't answer. He was watching Ugarte's face. Would he really shoot his golden goose? He honestly didn't know, but he couldn't take that chance. He pressed his wrists together and held out his arms.

"No. Behind your back," Renault ordered. Fraser complied, stifling a moan at the sharp pain in his back and shoulders. Renault quickly bound his wrists together, and pushed him forward. He retrieved his gun from Ugarte and pressed it to Fraser's back.

"Let's go," Ugarte ordered. "I left Abdul in the limo."

Renault nudged Fraser forward. Ugarte and Victor followed them through the open door onto a loading dock at the rear of the hotel. A sleek dark limousine was parked at the dock. Fraser noted the little flags of red, yellow, red affixed to the hood with magnet mounts, denoting it belonged to the Spanish Consulate. The headlights were off, but he could hear the engine running. He couldn't see inside. The windows were darkened glass.

The dock opened out into a fenced parking area. The lot was filled with the hotel's service vehicles marked with the Waldorf-Astoria's logo – six vans and two catering trucks – but appeared to be deserted of people. The gate, he was disappointed to see, was unmanned, the type that opened when a keycard was inserted into the mechanism. Fraser looked around for a surveillance camera. To his dismay, he found the unit smashed to pieces on the concrete.

Ugarte said to Renault, "All right, load them up." He gestured to Fraser. "And remember, he's your responsibility."

"I'll take care of him, Miguel," Renault said, sounding exactly like an eager little boy with a new pet. "I promise."


	26. Chapter 26

**CHAPTER TWENTY SIX**

Ray screeched to a halt on the concrete floor. Ahead of him, at the end of the long corridor, he saw a set of double doors with a large, lighted EXIT sign above. As he waited for Ilsa to catch up, he leaned over, his hands on his knees, and used the respite to catch his breath. Ilsa trotted up to him, her high heels dangling in one hand. To his chagrin, she wasn't even breathing hard. He made a silent vow to cut back on the pasta, before whispering in her ear.

"Stay here."

He approached the doors slowly, then pressed an ear against the cold metal. He heard nothing. Nudging the door open with his shoulder, gun at the ready, he peeked out, then slid through. He was standing on a loading dock looking out on a well-lit parking lot. Near a neat row of trash dumpsters, five vans and two trucks were parked, each bearing the name and logo of the hotel. A chain link fence, ten feet high, encircled the lot. Something crunched under his feet. He looked down to see the surveillance camera in pieces on the concrete.

He saw movement out of the corner of his left eye, and whirled. A long black car, its headlights off, nosed out of a gate some distance away. Ray took off running. The limo accelerated once it cleared the gate, causing little flags mounted on hood and trunk to flutter rapidly. The headlights switched on as the car approached Calder Street. Ray stopped, took aim, then dropped his arm. It was too far. And the stray bullet might go anywhere.

He thought quickly. Calder, little more than an alley, ran for several blocks with no turns, before it dead-ended on to a one-way street. If he had wheels, he might be able to catch up to it. There was no time to retrieve the Canadian Crown Vic from the valet, even if he could talk them into releasing it without the claim ticket in Fraser's pocket. He dashed back the way he'd come. Ilsa was on the dock, watching him. He beckoned her to join him.

"We need a ride." He pointed at the nearest vehicle. "That one!"

"We're stealing a van?!"

"Commandeering," he corrected. He tried the driver's door. Locked, of course. "Quick! Find something to break the window. I'll shoot it, if I have to –" As he looked around for a rock, the cell phone in his pocket rang.

He grabbed it. "Benny?!" he said, hoping against hope.

Inspector Thatcher's voice, harried, desperate and loud, carried over the eerie howling of an Arctic wolf.

"DETECTIVE! PUT FRASER ON NOW!"

Ray snatched the phone away before he ruptured an eardrum. "He's not –"

"PUT HIM ON NOW, OR I SWEAR, I'LL COME IN THERE WITH THE BEAST!"

Ray was starting to hang up when he registered what she said. "You're here?!" he asked. "At the hotel?!" He had to shout himself to be heard over the commotion.

"I'M OUT FRONT! GET FRASER OUT HERE! NOW!"

"You in a cab?!"

"WITH A HOWLING WOLF?! DON'T BE AN IDIOT!" The rolling of her eyes came through loud and clear. "I'M IN _YOUR_ CAR!"

"Inspector, I could kiss you!" Ray crowed. "Drive around to the back of the hotel –!"

"JUST SEND FRASE – !"

"I can't! Drive around – !"

"BUT – !" Then, Dief outdid himself, emitting a spectacular noise they must have heard in Detroit. She stopped arguing. "WHERE?!" she yelled.

"You're on Walton, right?!" At her concurrence, he said, "Stay on it, going east! Just before the traffic light, turn left into the service alley that takes you to the back of the hotel! Got it?!"

"GOT IT!" She hung up.

Ray looked up to see Ilsa holding a brick and staring at him.

"You heard?" he asked, stupidly.

She rolled her eyes. He grabbed her hand, and they ran, ducking under the arm of the unmanned gate. He heard Dief before he saw the car, and put on a burst of speed. The Riv bucked and jerked its way to the curb. Jeez, she was as bad a driver as Benny!

He raced to the driver's side door. Despite the cold, all the windows in the vehicle were wide open. No wonder! That sound was enough to wake the dead. When he saw Ray, Dief stuck his head out the driver's window, still howling. Thatcher, one hand covering an ear, was trying to shove him off her lap.

Ray clamped both hands around his muzzle and looked into the wolf's anguished eyes. He spoke slowly and distinctly. "He's alive! We're going after him! Now, shut up! Understand?!" Dief bobbed his head up and down. He let go. Dief, looking chagrined, licked his hand in apology. "I know, boy," he said, gently rubbing his head. "Now, get in the back."

Ray opened the door. Thatcher, rubbing her ears, looked frazzled. She was coatless, wearing leggings and a big sweater, hair mussed, no makeup.

"Scoot over," he ordered.

She didn't move. "Where's Fraser?" she demanded.

"Don't ask and don't argue!" he said, as patiently as he could. "It's a matter of life and death! Scoot over!"

"Please," Ilsa added, over his shoulder.

To her credit, Thatcher bit off her protests and clambered awkwardly over the console. Ray had forgotten about her injury until he saw the bandaged right ankle and fuzzy pink slipper. She had been driving with her left foot.

"Why didn't you have Turnbull drive?" he asked.

"I sent him home hours ago," she said, shortly. At his puzzled look, she said, "He fusses."

Ilsa climbed in the back, pushing a pair of crutches out of her way. Ray put the Riv in gear, and peeled out. He did an illegal U-turn, backtracked on Walton, then raced down Devereaux. As he drove, he rolled up the windows. Thatcher flicked on the heater, turning it all the way up. She must be freezing, traveling the fifty seven blocks between the Consulate and the Waldorf with the windows down. The heat felt good to him, too. He and Ilsa wore only their party clothes.

He made another turn.

"But, Ray, they went the other way," Ilsa protested.

"Who went the other way?" Thatcher demanded.

Ray ignored her. "Short cut," he said, brusquely. He jerked the wheel left, racing down a long alley. "Trust me, Ilsa."

"I do, Ray." She smiled at him in the rear-view mirror, then reached a hand over the seat. "Hello. I am Ilsa Lund."

"Margaret Thatcher." Meg shook her hand. "We've met."

"At the Benefit for Refugee Relief," Ilsa acknowledged. "I remember. You wore gray ... Prada, wasn't it?"

Meg nodded. "And you wore blue ... with gold stars. The colors of the Croatian flag, as I recall."

"Yes, I put that dress away," Ilsa said, solemnly. "When the Serbians march out, I'll wear it again."

Dief woofed politely.

"This is Diefenbaker," Meg said, grudgingly.

Ilsa stroked his head, murmuring what a pretty boy he was. Dief was smitten. He laid his head on her lap and looked up at her with adoring eyes.

Meg shot him a dirty look. The fiend wouldn't stop caterwauling no matter how she begged, bribed or threatened, and now butter wouldn't melt in his mouth. She hung on for dear life as Ray floored it through a red light at the intersection of Wayne and Wacker, swerving wildly around and between a Toyota and a Cadillac. Tires screeched, brakes squealed and horns blared. Meg pointedly fastened her seatbelt, then picked up the red light/siren sitting in the center console. She started to roll the window down.

"No!" Ray and Ilsa shouted.

Meg flinched. "But – "

"We can't," Ray said, tightly. "Trust me, Inspector."

She hesitated, then rolled the window back up. She set the light back in its place and hunkered down in the seat, bracing herself with both hands on the dash.

"There they are!" Ray said, as a black car sped past them on the cross street. The limo's distinctive size and shape, plus the fluttering flags, made it easy to identify. Ray turned right, sliding easily into traffic, keeping three cars between the limo and the Riv. The limo proceeded at a stately pace, obeying the speed limit and traffic signals assiduously. Either Fraser was at the wheel, which Ray thought highly unlikely, or the driver was taking no chances with getting pulled over. He took a deep breath and let it out.

That was what Meg was waiting for. "Now, that we have a moment," she said, firmly. "Tell me what's going on."

Ray didn't know where to start. "Um ..."

"We're following that limo?" she asked, impatiently. She squinted. "That's the flag of Spain." She gave him a sharp look. "Why are we chasing a limousine belonging to the Spanish Consulate?"

"It's a long story," he said, lamely.

"Where's Fraser?" she demanded.

Pointing straight ahead, Ilsa chimed in, "_They_ have Benton."

Meg, frowned. "Constable Fraser is in that car?"

Ilsa nodded. "And Victor Laszlo."

Meg turned in the seat to look her full in the face. "I'm sorry. I've been listening to that wolf howl too long," she said, putting a finger in one ear and wiggling it. "It sounded like you said 'Victor Laszlo.'"

"I did."

She hesitated, then said, very gently, "Victor Laszlo is dead."

"No, he's alive," Ilsa crowed. "Victor is alive!"

Meg glanced at Ray, who nodded in confirmation. She sat back, stunned. "Victor Laszlo alive!" she breathed. "That's ... that's ... incredible." She narrowed her eyes. "You're serious?" she said, skeptically. "This isn't some kind of elaborate joke?"

Ray shook his head. "You tell her," he said to Ilsa. "The condensed version."

She did, thoroughly but succinctly. Meg's eyes grew wide. She gasped and murmured at appropriate spots, but she let Ilsa finish without interrupting.

When she paused for breath, Meg said, slowly, "So, you're telling me that Miguel Ugarte and Louis Renault kidnaped Laszlo and now Fraser, and are holding them prisoner in the Spanish Consulate's limousine?"

"Yes."

"Don't forget the waiter," Ray put in.

"They kidnaped a waiter, too?" Meg exclaimed.

"No, the waiter is one of them," Ilsa said. She explained about Abdul.

Meg's brow was furrowed, trying to take it all in. " And ... _they_ don't know that _you_ know." She murmured, thinking out loud, "You want to keep that advantage. That's why you haven't called for ... er ... backup?"

Ray nodded. "All it takes is one gonzo cop for a hostage situation to go all FUBAR."

"Foohbahr?" Ilsa asked.

Ray and Meg exchanged amused glances. "It means 'to go badly,'" she explained, diplomatically. "So, where are they going now?"

Ilsa said, "I ... I don't know. Ray?"

"The Lake," he said, grimly. A cold knot had formed in his stomach several blocks back as he had realized the limo's apparent destination. Saying it out loud tightened that knot even more.

"The Lake?" she echoed, alarmed. Her eyes met Ray's in the rear view mirror. "You don't mean t-to dump –?"

Meg answered her. "No," she said, firmly. "They left Strasser and the other man – Karim – at the Waldorf. If they were planning to kill Fraser and Laszlo, they would have left them there, too."

"Yeah! That's right!" Ray wanted to kiss her again, as the knot in his gut began to loosen. "Then, why the Lake?" He answered his own question. "A boat? That's one way to smuggle prisoners out of town without attracting attention."

"Louis has a boat," Ilsa blurted.

"What kind?" Ray asked.

"I don't know," she said, helplessly. "I haven't seen it." She paused. "I know it's large enough to have a room for sleeping, a kitchen ..."

"Galley," Meg corrected. "On a boat, the kitchen is the 'galley.' And the bedroom, a 'cabin.'"

"Who cares?" Ray said, irritated. What was it with Canadians, anyway? To Ilsa, he said, "Where does he keep it? What marina?"

"I don't know," she said, apologetically. "All I know is its name. 'La Belle Aurore.'"

"The beautiful dawn," Meg translated.

Ray glanced at the clock on the dash. It was nearly two am. The ball would be ending any minute now. Dawn was still several hours away. Walter Harrington would be waiting anxiously for that million to one shot that his friend would be released at dawn, unharmed.

The limo turned down Diversey. The traffic, light because of the hour, was even lighter on the waterfront. Ray slowed down, giving them some space. Sure enough, the limo eventually entered a parking lot that served Diversey Harbor Marina. Ray slowed way down and doused the headlights. The limo turned left into the deserted parking lot. It pulled into a space at the end and parked.

"Inspector, there's a pair of binoculars in the glove," he said, keeping his eyes on the limo. It just sat there, headlights shining on a boat moored at the end of a row. The boat itself was dark. In fact, all the boats were dark and had a shuttered look. It was March, after all. A few streetlights illuminated the parking lot, casting vast areas in shadow. Ray pulled into one of those and parked, leaving the engine running.

Thatcher tried to hand him the binoculars.

"You keep 'em," he said, squinting. "Can you see the name on the boat?"

Thatcher peered through the glasses. "La Belle Aurore. It looks deserted."

The limo sat there. No one got out.

"OK," Ray said. "We only have time for me to say this once, so listen up." Meg turned to look at him. "Keep your eyes on the limo." She bristled instinctively at his peremptory tone, but tamped it down. Vecchio was right, dammit.

"Me and Dief are gonna sneak up on the limo. Maybe, we can get the drop on these guys, or at least, get Fraser and Laszlo away, bring 'em back here to the Riv – " At Ilsa's questioning look, he explained, "Riviera ... Riv. My car." He rubbed the dash, fondly.

"Inspector, if it goes bad ... if I can't get them out ... you and Ilsa get to a safe place ... use the radio to call for backup. That'll be faster than your cell phone. Tell dispatch there are officers down." He told her his call sign. "Do not, I repeat, do not come after us on your own!" He turned and looked at Ilsa. "You listen to her, you hear me?"

"But, Ray– !"

"She's the cop. And a good one." Meg looked startled. He softened his tone. "Ilsa, if I can't get them out with the gun and the wolf ... " he trailed off. "Just follow the Inspector's lead. She'll know what to do."

Meg, still peering through the binoculars, jerked to attention. "Movement!"

Ray whirled. The driver's side door of the limo opened and a man in a white jacket stepped out. "That's Abdul," he said, adding unnecessarily, "the waiter."

The waiter closed the door and stood looking at the dark boat.

"Could you see inside the car?" he asked Thatcher.

"No, the windows are opaque glass."

He took a breath and let it out. "OK. Ilsa, get behind the wheel. Dief, you're with me." He woofed, softly. Ray opened the door slowly and got out of Ilsa's way. She climbed in to the seat he had vacated.

"Good luck," Meg muttered.

"Be careful," Ilsa whispered.

Man and wolf crept forward on two and four legs respectively, cutting across the parking lot on a diagonal. They crouched behind a concrete planter containing one skinny, leafless tree. The planter screened them from view and was heavy enough to provide cover in the event of a firefight. Ray shivered. The wind coming off the Lake was cold and carried a dank smell. The line of boats rocked and creaked with the movement of the water.

Abdul stepped on to the dock. He cupped his hands around his mouth and called, "Karim! It's me! Are you here?"

Ray was startled. The waiter didn't know Karim's fate – that the young man lay dead in the basement of the Waldorf, minus his face. He didn't have time to ponder the significance of that, as Abdul boarded the dark boat, still calling Karim's name. He must have found a switch as lights blazed on inside the vessel and on the rigging. Still, no movement in the limo. Ray looked back to where the Riv was parked in the shadows. He couldn't make it out, even though he knew it was there.

After several minutes, Abdul emerged on to the lighted deck. Ray got his first good look at him, recognizing him as one of several waiters who had brought him champagne and hors d'oeuvres throughout the evening. The young man looked puzzled. _Join the club_, Ray thought.

Abdul stepped off the boat, onto the dock.

Ray looked into Dief's eyes. "Go," he mouthed. The wolf crept forward, disappearing into the shadows. Ray waited until Abdul stepped off the dock and on to the macadam of the parking lot, before getting to his feet.

"Freeze! Police!" He pointed the gun at the waiter. "You're surrounded, Abdul!"

Abdul jumped in surprise. He stared at Ray, then turned to run back to the boat. Dief was there, blocking his escape. The wolf bared his teeth. Abdul stopped dead, backed up slowly, then turned around. Apparently, given a choice between an Arctic wolf and a Chicago cop, he'd take the cop. Not as dumb as he looked.

"Hands where I can see them, Abdul!" Ray ordered.

His hands shot up over his head .

"You in the car!" Ray called, "Police! Come out slowly, with your hands raised!" No response at all. "Abdul, tell your friends in the car to come out!"

Abdul stared at him. "Th -there is no one in the car." His English was good, his accent slight.

Ray beckoned him forward. "Open the front door on the passenger side." Abdul moved to comply. "Slowly," Ray warned, keeping the gun trained on him.

As Abdul opened the door, the interior light came on. There was no one in the front seat.

They moved on to the back door. Ray crept forward, peering in the large passenger compartment. Empty.

Dief circled around the car. He started barking furiously at the trunk. Ray swallowed to wet his dry throat. "Who's in the trunk, Abdul?"

Abdul gaped at him. "No one! I am alone!"

Dief was growing increasingly agitated, and making a helluva racket. Ray motioned the waiter forward until they both stood at the rear of the car. "Open it," he ordered.

"The key is in my pocket," he said, tentatively.

"Go ahead." He gestured with the gun. "No tricks or I swear, I _will_ shoot you."

"I do not know any tricks," Abdul protested. He reached into his trousers pocket, slowly withdrawing a ring of keys. He inserted one in the lock and raised the trunk lid.

Dief went bananas, barking and jumping up on Ray. He pushed the wolf down, stepping forward slowly to peer over the lip of the trunk. He was so relieved that the bodies of Fraser and Laszlo were not in the trunk with Waldorf Astoria cutlery sticking out of their chests, it took him a moment to register what actually _was_ there. A thing of plastic pipe and colored wires in the deep dark recess. If it wasn't for that red light on top, he wouldn't be able to see it at all. As Ray watched, the number on the red light changed from 11 to 10 then from 10 to 9 and then 9 to 8 ...

Dief nipped his ankle, breaking his paralysis.

"Run!" Ray yelled.

Abdul blinked at him.

"RUN!" he yelled again, grabbing the kid by the arm. They ran for their lives.

A giant WHOOOOOMMMPPP lifted Ray off his feet. He sailed through the air. When next he was aware, he lay face down on the asphalt of the parking lot. The Riv squealed to a stop in front of him. The door opened and long legs in strappy high heels ran toward him.

"Ray!"

He looked up, dazed, into the lovely face of Ilsa Lund. He said the first thing that popped into his head.

"How do you walk in those things?"

Something wet touched his face and he flinched. It was Dief's tongue. He pushed the wolf away and sat up. Abdul was stirring next to him.

Ilsa crouched beside Ray. "Are you OK?" she asked, placing her hand tenderly alongside his cheek.

"Yeah," he murmured. "I think so." Then, in alarm, "Where's the gun?"

"I have it," Meg said. He looked up. She had a crutch under her left arm. With her right hand, she pointed the Walther PPK at Abdul.

"Wh-what happened?" the waiter asked, weakly.

"Bomb," she said, brusquely. Ray swivelled his head. Twenty feet away, the Spanish Consulate's limousine was burning, lighting up the parking lot like a torch. Beyond that, La Belle Aurore was blazing, the flames reflecting on the water.

Memory rushed back.

"There was a bomb in the trunk of the car," Ray said, with dawning comprehension.

"And one on the boat," Meg said. "I think they were linked by radio so that they detonated simultaneously. There's a type of device that triggers an explosion when a signal gets close enough."

"Proximity fuse," Ray said, struggling to his feet. Ilsa helped him up. He wobbled a bit, but seemed otherwise intact. He looked down at the hole in the knee of his trousers. Another Armani bites the dust, he thought bitterly. He said to Abdul, "Where are Fraser and Laszlo?" The waiter bit his lip and didn't answer.

"They weren't in the car?" Ilsa breathed in relief.

"Or the boat?" Meg added, hopefully.

Ray, sure of the car and pretty sure of the boat, shook his head. He repeated his question.

Abdul wailed. "I don't know what is going on!"

"Where are –?" Ray stopped. Sirens in the distance. "We gotta get out of here."

"Are you sure you're alright, Detective," Meg asked, worriedly.

"I'm fine," he said, wincing at the pain in his scraped knee. He hauled Abdul to his feet, then frisked him quickly. The waiter stood passively, his face twisted in confusion and misery. Ray found wallet and keys, but no weapons. Ilsa herded Dief and Thatcher, hobbling with the crutch, into the car. He loaded Abdul in the trunk, then, slid behind the wheel.

"Here," he said, handing Thatcher the tire iron he had removed from the trunk.

He left the headlights off as they sped out of the parking lot only a minute ahead of two patrol cars and a fire engine. A few blocks away, he pulled into the parking lot of an abandoned warehouse. They couldn't see the marina anymore, but the night sky was lit up with flames in that direction.

Thatcher handed him the gun. He got out and walked to the back of the Riv. He opened the trunk. The waiter blinked up at him, then climbed out, painfully. The knees in his trousers were torn and his hands were scraped and bleeding from his impact with the macadam.

By the time he was out, Thatcher, Ilsa and Dief were there.

"Alright, Abdul," Ray said, harshly. "This is how it's gonna work. We need answers. And you're gonna give them to us."

The waiter shook his head, his lips pressed tightly together.

Ray handed the gun to Thatcher. He rounded on Abdul, grabbing his lapels and shoving him against the car.

"We know you had Laszlo stashed in that basement room! We know you got Fraser now! Where are they?!"

The young man stubbornly shook his head.

Meg, leaning on her crutch, said calmly, "I am the Chief Diplomatic Officer for the Dominion of Canada in Chicago. As such, I have full diplomatic immunity for any crime committed on American soil." She raised the gun and pointed it at his head. "Constable Fraser is my officer and my responsibility. Tell me where he is. Now!"

Silence.

"Please, Abdul," Ilsa said, brokenly. "Victor Laszlo is my husband! Please tell me where he is!"

Abdul looked startled at this revelation. So did Meg, who goggled at her. Abdul looked at his feet, but said nothing.

"Your turn, Dief," Ray said.

Dief bared his teeth and emitted a low, throaty growl. It raised the hackles on the back of Ray's neck. Abdul cringed and pressed back against the car, hands covering his crotch. But he still didn't talk.

Ray snarled in frustration. This was not working. There had to be another way to open him up. In desperation, he flipped through the guy's wallet. His Illinois driver's license revealed he was 26 years old, lived in an apartment in Cabrini-Green, and his full name was Abdul Mohammed Jabbar. Jabbar. Ray stared at the waiter for a long moment, then uttered one word.

"Karim."

Abdul looked up sharply, his expression both hopeful and scared.

"You were expecting him to be at the boat," Ray mused. No response. "Too bad he couldn't make it."

Abdul swallowed and licked his lips. At last, he spoke, "Y-you have arrested my brother?"

"Brother?" Ilsa gasped. She studied his features. "Yes, I see the resemblance." There was pity in her voice, despite everything.

Abdul heard it. "What have you done with him? Where is my brother?"

Ray was blunt. "Dead." He watched the color drain from the waiter's face. "We found him in the room in the basement of the hotel, where you were holding Laszlo."

Abdul looked at Ilsa for confirmation. She nodded, sadly. "It's true."

"You killed him!" he hurled the accusation at Ray like a stone.

Ray looked at him. "No, I didn't," he said, as simply and sincerely as he could. "I _found _him in that room, with his face blown off." Abdul flinched, but Ray continued. "Left behind by your buddies, like a piece of garbage." He jabbed the waiter in the chest. "Think! You know we didn't plant those bombs!"

_That_ hit home. Abdul's eyes filled. "Miguel ... he told me ..." His voice broke and he stopped. "He told me he sent Karim ahead to get the boat ready. He said to come here to help him." His lips trembled as he struggled to form the words. "He knew Karim was dead ..." His shoulders sagged and he lowered his head. Ray heard sniffling. He gave him a moment to absorb that his brother was dead, killed by his co-conspirators.

"Where is Ugarte now?" he prompted. "Or Renault?"

"I don't know," he repeated. "I last saw them at the hotel. In the service lot. Miguel gave me the keys for the limo and took my key for the van." He added in explanation, "The hotel courtesy van." He paused. "Miguel said they would meet us – Karim and me – at the boat in an hour." He looked at the glow in the sky. "He knew there was a bomb in the trunk!" He stared at Ray. "He put it there!"

"Now, you're getting it, kid," Ray said, not without some sympathy.

"What about Victor?" Ilsa asked.

"And Fraser," Meg added.

"They went in the van, with Louis and Miguel," he said, snuffling.

"Were they alright?" Ilsa asked, anxiously.

He nodded. "Tied up," he said. "The Mountie had blood on his shirt, but he was walking." He paused. "Well, limping." At Meg's glare, he flinched and dropped his head.

Ray pushed the image of a limping bloody Fraser out of his head and focused on the business at hand. "If you help us ... help find the men that killed your brother and tried to kill you, it'll go easier for you with the judge."

His head shot up. His face was wet, but his eyes were fierce. "I don't care about judges! They killed my brother!" Ray was glad he wasn't Ugarte or Renault. If looks could kill ...

"Where did they go?"

"I don't know, I tell you! I believed Miguel when he said they would meet me here!"

"Was there a contingency?" Abdul looked puzzled. "An alternate place to rendezvous? Plan B?"

He shook his head, miserable. "No."

"Not that they told you, anyway," Ray said, thinking out loud. "Of course, they wouldn't tell you. You're supposed to be dead." He ran his hands through his hair in frustration. Time was ticking away and they were no closer to finding Fraser and Laszlo.

He looked at Thatcher. "They left two bodies at the hotel. Strasser was a known associate of Renault and Ugarte – "

"Emil is dead, too?!" Abdul blurted. There was no doubting his shock was genuine.

"Yeah, in the Chippewa Room." He turned to Meg. "So, two bodies ... Renault's boat ... the Spanish car ...the investigations are going to lead back to them. They'd know that."

"Indeed." She nodded in the direction of the blaze. "That was intended to tie up loose ends before they fled the country."

"Where would they go?" Ilsa asked.

"The Caymans, I bet," Ray said. "Harrington wired the ransom to an account there." He frowned, rubbing his forehead. "But, they took Fraser and Laszlo with them! Why? They can't take prisoners to the airport and check them with the luggage."

Meg gasped. "Oh my God!"

Ray and Ilsa stared at her.

"Miguel can fly!" she blurted.

"What?!" Ray said.

"Miguel has a private pilot's license," Meg said. "He took me up in Ottawa once."

"That's right! He does!" Ilsa confirmed. "It was useful for our diplomatic missions. Sometimes, we couldn't find a pilot willing to take us into dangerous territory. When Miguel expressed an interest in learning to fly, Victor encouraged him."

Ray narrowed his eyes at Abdul. "What do you know about this?" he said, with cold menace.

He flung his arms out. "Nothing, I swear!"

"Does he own a plane?" Ray asked Ilsa.

"Oh, no, Ray," she said. "It is much too expensive. Walter would – " Her hand flew to her mouth. She said, excitedly, "When Walter is in town, he lets Miguel use _his_ plane!"

"Where ...?" He swallowed. His heart was hammering so hard in his chest, it made him breathless. "Where does Walter keep his plane?"

She told him. A private airstrip on the outskirts of the city. Ray sandwiched Abdul, his hands tied with his father's filthy silk handkerchief, between Ilsa with the tire iron and Dief with his teeth as Thatcher hobbled to the passenger seat. He jumped behind the wheel.

He turned in his seat. "We got one shot at this. If we guess wrong ..."

"_Go,_" Ilsa pleaded.

"_Hurry_," Thatcher urged.

"_Bark_," Dief barked.

Ray put the Riv in gear and peeled out. This time, he didn't stop Thatcher as she mounted the red light/siren on the roof of the Riv and flicked the switch.


	27. Chapter 27

**CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN**

Fraser jerked upright. It had happened again. He had been staring, slack-jawed, out the window of the van, mesmerized by the lights of the city, his disjointed thoughts careening about like rocks in a landslide, tumbling over and over and over ...

"Are you alright, Benton?" Victor Laszlo asked in a low voice.

Fraser turned his head to meet the concerned eyes of the diplomat. Victor sat next to him in the courtesy van. The seats were arranged in four rows. Miguel Ugarte drove; Louis Renault was in the passenger seat beside him. With a click of a button, that seat had swivelled 180 degrees, allowing him to face the prisoners.

"I'm fine," he said, though his standard answer to that question was rather far from the truth. The mystery drug that Renault had injected into him did, as promised, counter the physical effects of the stun gun, at least enough to allow him to nominally function. But, it also had mental effects. His mind was an undisciplined mess, flitting like a butterfly from thought to thought. It took a conscious effort of will to stay focused. And, to overcome the sense of unreality that overlaid his senses, threatening to render him passive and inert.

He had little experience with mind-altering substances, except for the medications he had been given in the hospital last year. But, those drugs had the opposite effect, dulling his brain and pulling him down into sleep, an unnatural sleep that neither renewed nor refreshed. But this ... hyperstimulation ... was different. The closest thing in his experience was the occasional overconsumption of bad precinct coffee, but this feeling was light years beyond caffeine overdose.

His time sense was off, too. He thought it might have been ten minutes since Renault had forced them into the van which exited the hotel lot just ahead of the Spanish limousine. Since then, Victor had stared avidly out the window. Captive he may be, and his future grimly uncertain, but this was his first time outside of a cellar or crate in three months and he was drinking in the sights of the city.

Fraser followed his gaze. Chicago's nightlife was still bustling in the neon lights of the bars and clubs. Not yet closing time, he judged. The colored lights were pretty, he mused, in their garish way. Like the city, itself, with the darkness concealing her seedier aspects. So pretty, the way the lights flickered, reminding him of the aurora borea – The van hit a pothole, wrenching his gaze away before he was hypnotized yet again. Fraser, hands bound behind him, lurched against the window before recovering his balance. He looked up to find Louis Renault watching him, his expression of solicitude a jarring contrast to the gun he held in his hand.

The gun – a Glock, not the taser – was pointed at Victor's heart. Initially, he had turned the weapon on Fraser. But, Ugarte had directed him to point it at the other man, assuring Renault quite accurately that Fraser would not try anything if the diplomat was the one at risk. Personally, Fraser thought Ugarte's assessment of his trouble-making ability was vastly overrated. There was little he could do, bound and belted into his seat, still reeling from the effects of the taser and the injection, even if he was willing to risk Victor's life.

He licked his lips. Conversation with the Frenchman, repellant as he was, would keep his mind focused and might provide information useful to their escape. He remembered the Inspector's advice. Start small and build.

"What time is it, m'sieu?" he asked, politely.

Renault glanced at his watch. "1:56." He smiled that charming smile. "The night is still young, Benton."

The ball was nearly over. Ray would be frantic at the loss of contact, with no clue as to where he had disappeared to. He glanced at Victor. So would Ilsa.

"What ... what was in the injection you gave me?" He didn't really expect an answer, and was not sure that he wanted one.

But, Renault brightened. "My own recipe. Cocaine, of course. Benzedrine. Methamphetamine." He shrugged in a very Gallic manner. "A pinch of this, a dash of that. Do you like it?"

"No." The inventory of the illicit drugs coursing through his body dismayed and amazed him. Dismayed that he consented to be dosed with the illegal substances; amazed that people chose to do this for recreation.

Renault looked crestfallen. "Pity. I thought it one of my better concoctions." He shrugged, philosophically. "I think you will come to enjoy it ... in time."

Fraser kept his expression bland, but the statement and its implications chilled him. Forced addiction, then withholding the addictive substance, was a cruelly effective means of breaking a captive's will.

He changed the subject. "Where are we going?"

Renault opened his mouth.

"Louis," Ugarte warned.

Renault lowered his voice. "As you see, I, too, am supposed to stick to small talk."

Fraser, remembering Renault's half of the conversation on the cell phone in the basement, pressed on.

"What is Plan Z?"

Ugarte gave Fraser a sharp look over his shoulder. "Louis," he said, firmly. "Stop talking to him."

Renault was unoffended at the peremptory tone. He winked conspiratorially at Fraser and murmured, "You will see."

The brief exchange confirmed what Fraser had already suspected. As dangerous as Louis Renault was, Miguel Ugarte was the real threat. He was the manipulative mastermind, skilled at planning, yet adept at improvisation as circumstances required. Like a ... a ... chess master, moving his human pawns around the board with bold, calculating precision. Fraser had recoiled earlier at the thought of getting inside Renault's twisted psychology. But, the Frenchman, too, was merely one of the pieces. A deadly piece, to be sure. But, still under the player's control. Renault's long story had revealed that it was Ugarte who had led him, albeit willingly, down the path of criminal enterprise. Perhaps, Ugarte had also whispered in Strasser's ear that Ilsa would be his, once Victor was out of the way... No, it was Ugarte's mind that he needed to understand now.

He would have to bend his uncooperative brain to that task. Under normal conditions, it was something he had a gift for. But, conditions were far from normal. Besides, it was one thing to look dispassionately down on the chessboard from a lofty perch. It was another thing entirely to be a piece on that board. And, a doped-up piece at that.

Still, he reminded himself, he had been a pawn in someone else's game before. And, she had been a masterful player.

At the thought of Victoria, his hyperactive brain instantly accessed memories he usually kept locked away. Images of those three wonderful, horrible days raced through his head like a runaway engine. He tried to stop it, but his mind refused to obey. The memory ran its course, ending with him flat on his back on the platform of a train station, desperately reciting a poem over and over as he tried not to die.

He shut his eyes. He may have turned the tables on Victoria. But, in the end, she had known him better than he knew himself. She had almost won the game, would have possessed him, body and soul, as Renault wanted to do now. But, she hadn't counted on the unexpected move of another pawn ...

His superheated brain latched on to the chess imagery and ran away with it. He stared unseeing, at the back of Ugarte's dark head, as focus skipped away again ... they were pawns and pieces moving in a_ sub rosa _game ... Marta, first pawn down, left behind in a dumpster ... Christina toppled on a public street ... Meg nearly joining them in death ... Strasser and Karim felled at the Waldorf ... Ilsa in regal garb and crown, separated from Victor, the noble king ... Walter Harrington, the castle with deep pockets ... Ray, the white knight whose trusty steed was a green Buick Riviera. And Fraser himself? Advanced pawn in black's territory, weak and overextended.

The game had spanned months and continents. North Africa to North America ... Casablanca to Chicago ... move and countermove. The logo of the Diplomacy Ball, the globe and clasped hands, morphed in his mind's eye into a chessboard, the hand of Miguel Ugarte poised ominously over the remaining pieces ... gambits using real people ... sacrifice and sudden death a recurring motif ...

"Knight to H-3," he murmured.

"Pawn to H-6."

Fraser blinked, surprised to see Ugarte watching him in the rearview mirror. Their eyes met. "Pawn to H-6," Ugarte repeated.

Fraser hadn't realized he had spoken the opening move aloud. "Knight to G-5," he said, after a moment. The chess moves helped focus his thoughts.

"Pawn takes knight."

"Bishop to H-3."

It continued in that vein for several minutes, then Ugarte said, surprised, "You are using the Marrakesh Gambit."

"It seemed fitting," Fraser acknowledged.

Victor looked away from the view outside his window. "Be careful, Ben. Miguel is a grandmaster, ranked twentieth in the world."

"Nineteenth," Ugarte corrected, in the tone of one merely stating a fact. "Romanov died last month."

"Boring game, if you ask me," Renault put in.

"Far from it," Fraser told him, though he looked pointedly at Ugarte. "Especially when the stakes are high."

"Indeed," the Spaniard acknowledged with a dip of his head, but he didn't answer Fraser's last move.

The ride continued in silence. The bright neon of downtown gave way to residential neighborhoods. Victor continued to watch out the window, Renault kept his gun steady, and Ugarte drove sedately through the streets of Chicago. Every so often, he glanced at Fraser in the mirror.

In due course , they left the neighborhoods behind, merging into an area of industrial parks, trucking depots and warehouses. Fog drifted across the road in the low-lying spots. Eventually, Ugarte turned down a dark, paved single-lane road. Fraser noted the sign that read **Private Road – No Trespassing. Violaters Will Be Prosecuted**. Unfazed, Ugarte continued for another thousand feet before stopping. He put the van in park, but kept the engine running.

Fraser ducked his head and peered through the windshield. The headlights illuminated a ten foot high cyclone fence and another large **No Trespassing **sign. They faced a double gate with a padlock.

Renault frowned. "Where is Abdul? He should have been here by now."

Ugarte grunted in non-response, before opening the driver's door. "I'll leave the gate open for him." he said, before stepping out of the vehicle. He stuck his head back in. "Watch them closely."

Renault did as instructed. But, Fraser looked past him to watch Ugarte approach the gate. He extracted a ring of keys from his pocket, searched among them, then inserted a key in the padlock. He removed the lock and tossed it aside. Then, he pushed one side of the double gate open before climbing back behind the wheel. He drove slowly through the gate, continuing down the paved lane leaving the gate open behind them.

A windsock, standing straight out from a pole, confirmed Fraser's surmise. This was a private airfield. Very private. They drove some distance, perhaps a half-kilometer, before the headlights illuminated a paved airstrip running parallel to the access road. Another windsock, this time with a directional mount, indicated that the wind was blowing from the northeast. Eventually, they approached a collection of buildings – an airplane hangar in the center and a few outbuildings that looked like equipment storage. A small parking lot was situated to the side of the hangar, near a set of fuel pumps. While it was dark and deserted, the facilities projected an expensive and well-maintained appearance.

"This is Walter's airport," Victor whispered.

Fraser nodded. He had suspected as much. Since the kidnapers were keeping them alive, escape options would be limited. His first guess had been the waterfront and a fast boat, but then Ugarte had turned away from the Lake they call Michigan. Commercial air travel was out of the question. Victor had been brought into the city by train, drugged into unconsciousness and stuffed into a specially equipped shipping container. But, they had left the crate behind in the basement of the Waldorf Astoria. And, it wasn't large enough for two prisoners.

Renault had called this Plan Z. Fraser wouldn't be surprised if Ugarte had contingency plans straddling the alphabet. While he deplored their actions, he had to admire the coolheaded maneuvering of Ugarte and Renault in using their diplomatic positions to mask worldwide arms dealing and money laundering. By kidnaping Laszlo and faking his death when he discovered their perfidy, they had prevented their own exposure, even convincing the world at large that they were heroes. They had waited patiently for three months to extort a ransom, using the fixed point of Chicago and the Diplomacy Ball to catch up to the traveling Harringtons with their frenetic itinerary. Even when Emil Strasser threatened to betray them tonight, they had acted decisively, continuing their play for the ransom without panic. Even now, on the run, they were 'doubling down,' planning to sell Victor to the highest bidder in an underworld auction. Each move had been bold, but calculated. Daring, but logical.

Except ... Fraser didn't fit into the equation. His inclusion in Plan Z could not have been anticipated. Only Renault's willingness to bargain with Ugarte had ensured his survival thus far. But, Renault was taking a big risk by keeping another captive alive, even more so a trained police officer. Who could have anticipated that he would develop such a ... a ... passion for his prisoner that he would defy logic and reason to keep him close, giving up a million dollars or more for the privilege? Not even a grandmaster like Ugarte could have seen that one coming.

Still, as dismayed as he was to be the object of Renault's unreasoning obsession, Fraser could understand it ... after Fortitude Pass. As he told Ilsa in the Chippewa Room, the power of that kind of feeling was frightening.

It was Ugarte he didn't understand.

It was telling that the Spaniard had allowed Renault to bring him along, because the risk affected him as well. Apparently, his greed trumped his logic because the only logical course of action was for Fraser to die after Victor had capitulated. And Ugarte had been eminently logical up till now. He frowned. He was missing something. Some other explanation for Ugarte's easy acceptance of Renault's whim. Before he could force his uncooperative mind to pin down the elusive thread, Ugarte turned off the engine, leaving the headlights on. They shone on a door on the side of the hangar.

"I will be back shortly," he told Renault. He opened the door of the van, then turned back. "Do not talk to them, Louis."

"OK, Miguel," he said, executing a mock salute with panache.

Ugarte left the driver's door open and walked in the glare of the headlights. Fraser watched as he punched a code into the security keypad at the door on the hangar, then disappeared inside. Lights blazed on in the building, the parking lot, and the runway, the thickening fog giving the airfield an otherworldly glow.

"Where are we going, m'sieu?" Fraser asked again.

Renault smiled, but didn't answer.

"It's not as if we can tell anyone, Louis," Victor said, sarcastically.

He grinned. "True," he acknowledged. He looked quickly over his shoulder, but Ugarte was still inside the hangar. "Next stop ... Grand Cayman." He shivered in the draft from the open door. "Where it will be warm and sunny. Have you ever been to the Caribbean, Benton?" he said, conversationally.

Fraser shook his head. He had never been south of the city's Southside. "I'm afraid I left my passport in my desk. Perhaps, I can go get it," he said, drily.

Renault snorted a little laugh. "We will make do." He looked over their shoulders to the access road, and frowned. "Abdul had better hurry," he muttered.

Fraser straightened at that. He had nearly forgotten the missing waiter. That elusive thread dangled tantalizingly just out of reach.

Ugarte trotted back to the car. He pulled his gun from the pocket of his dinner jacket and opened Laszlo's door. He unbelted the diplomat, then grabbed his arm. "Get out slowly, Victor." He did as instructed, standing shivering in his thin shirt, while Ugarte pressed the cold barrel of the gun against the back of his neck.

"Be careful, Louis," he warned as Renault stepped out of the van and opened Fraser's door. Renault was wary, undoing the seatbelt with his gun pressed painfully to Fraser's temple. He backed away and motioned him out. Fraser swung his legs over, pleased that his limbs obeyed him. It was awkward getting out of the vehicle with his hands behind his back, but he managed. Renault, having learned his lesson, was keeping his distance.

It was a parade, though hardly a festive one. Victor led the way, Ugarte's gun pressed to his back, Fraser following, with Renault bringing up the rear. They entered the hangar through the side door. The inside was illuminated in the overhead fluorescents. It was a large, cavernous space. Toolbenches and equipment lined the perimeter. Clearly, it was a real working space, but very neat and tidy. A sleek private jet faced the big hangar doors. From the stylized "G" on the tail, Fraser surmised it was a Gulfstream. The distance between Chicago and Grand Cayman was approximately 2500 kilometers, well within the range of a jet that size. This was the craft that the Harringtons used for their world tour, after all.

Ugarte pushed a big red button on the wall. A loud clang sounded, then a mechanism sprang to life, parting the hangar bay doors. He told Renault, "Walter said his crew would have the plane readied before they retired for the night. Let us see if that is true."

Mrs. Harrington had told Fraser that she and her husband were spending the night in their penthouse suite at the Waldorf, then departing the city in the afternoon, then flying on to Lisbon. Presumably, the jet was fueled, the stores replenished, and a flight plan filed. Their luggage might even be on board. He was sure Mr. Harrington would cancel his travel plans now that he knew Victor was alive and a captive. He wondered when anyone would actually notice the plane was missing. It could be days.

Ugarte approached the jet and inserted a key on the side of the fuselage. A small access panel popped open. He pushed a button and a door on the plane opened. Built-in airstairs unfolded with a pneumatic hiss, its base settling with a thump on the concrete floor of the hangar. With a nod at Renault, Ugarte boarded the aircraft. Moments later, lights flickered on in the cabin and the exterior. He appeared at the top of the stairs and beckoned them forward.

Again, Victor went first, then Fraser. To his chagrin, he tottered a bit on the steep stairs, his balance affected with his arms behind him. When he entered the luxurious cabin, he knew without a doubt that Mrs. Harrington had been the decorator. The prevailing theme was pink. A nearly life-size photograph of the couple was mounted on the cabin wall, next to the washroom. Mr. Harrington looked dignified in a dark pinstriped suit; Mrs. Harrington wore a red dress with a plunging neckline. Her eyes, wounded and accusing, seemed to follow him as he moved. He shook his head sharply, dispelling the drug-fueled fancy. Ugarte ordered Fraser into a seat on the right side of the plane and instructed Victor to belt him in.

As the older man leaned over him, he said, "I am so sorry about this, Ben."

"It's not your fault," Fraser replied.

"Isn't it?" he said, sadly. "I was so blind – "

Ugarte cut him off. "Tighter, Victor," he ordered. He complied, cinching the seatbelt around Fraser's lap before taking his own seat across the aisle and belting in. Satisfied, Ugarte tucked his gun into the pocket of his dinner jacket, and entered the tiny cockpit, leaving the door open. Fraser watched as he pushed buttons and flipped levers. The control panels lit up with a purposeful hum.

He called over his shoulder to Renault. "Fuel tank is full. All gauges reading ready."

Renault smiled. "Walter has an efficient crew," he told Fraser.

Victor added, morosely. "They have been with him for years."

Ugarte picked up a clipboard attached to the console. "Stun them, Louis," he said, casually.

Victor and Fraser exchanged alarmed glances.

"Why?" Renault asked.

"I must do the pre-flight checklist," he explained, flipping a toggle switch over his head. "And, you need to guide me out of the hangar." He studied the list, then flicked another switch. "Stun them, then get the flares that are in the cabinet by the hangar doors."

Renault fumbled in his pocket, pulling out the taser. He pressed the button to turn it on. Fraser heard it whine as it loaded its charge. "What about Abdul?"

"He'll be here," Ugarte said, distractedly.

Fraser dipped his head and peered out his window. "Here comes the Spanish limousine now," he said, mildly.

"Impossible!" Ugarte exclaimed, rising from his seat and squinting out the cockpit window.

Renault leaned over, looking out Fraser's window. The runway and access road were empty. "I do not see anything." He straightened, puzzled. "Do you, Miguel?"

But, Ugarte was looking warily at Fraser.

Fraser said to Renault. "Abdul isn't coming."

He stared at him. "What? How do you know – ?"

Fraser inclined his head at Ugarte. "He just told us." He said to the Spaniard, "Tell him why Abdul wasn't here to meet you. Why it is 'impossible' that he would drive up in the limousine just now."

Ugarte was silent.

"Miguel?" Renault prompted. He was frowning, looking back and forth between the two men. Fraser had at last gotten hold of that elusive thread and wasn't letting go.

Ugarte shrugged. "Abdul is dead."

Renault's mouth dropped. "What?! How?! Why?!"

He rolled his eyes. "Does it matter how? I made an executive decision. There was no time to discuss it." As Renault frowned at him, he continued. "_Think_, Louis! You killed his brother. Did you really want him on this plane with us for six hours?"

"I did not plan to kill Karim," he said, defensively. "But, he was about to shoot Benton!"

Ugarte said, exasperated, "Do you think if you explained to Abdul that you shot his brother – your lover – to save the life of the man you want now, that he would just forgive you?" He snorted. "Really, Louis. You are such a child! You never think things through."

Renault was chagrined. "I suppose you are right."

"You know I am," he answered, shortly. He turned back to the cockpit. "Now, stun them and get the flares."

Renault lifted the taser.

"Listen to me," Fraser said, his voice low, compelling.

Renault's gray eyes locked with his.

"Abdul was a loose end," he said, urgently. "So, are you. Ugarte will kill you before you reach Grand Cayman. Probably, before you leave this airfield."

"Wh-what!"

"He won't need you anymore," Fraser explained, the plan as clear as crystal in his mind. "He will kill _me_ once you leave the plane." He added, "Another 'executive decision.'"

"No, he ... wouldn't do that." But, he looked doubtfully over his shoulder.

"Louis, don't listen," Ugarte said, quickly. "He's trying to – "

"He told you to think! So, think!" Fraser's blue eyes bored into Renault's. "If you are dead, Ugarte keeps it all. The ransom, plus the bounty on Laszlo. Don't you think he agreed rather quickly to your desire to bring me along? He was placating you because he needed you to get this far. But, I have no value to him. In point of fact, I'm a liability. "

Renault's eyes narrowed as he listened.

Fraser hammered his point home. "And, so are you. You have demonstrated quite clearly that you will kill to keep me alive."

"Miguel is my friend," Renault protested. "I would never – "

"That's right, Louis," Ugarte said. "We _are _friends. Stun him!"

Fraser ignored him. "He's the grandmaster. Always thinking several moves ahead. You _know_ that." He paused. "Your discovery that you enjoy killing. How you feel about me. These make you ... unpredictable. And therefore, uncontrollable." He leaned forward. "Tell me, what would a chess master do with a piece that no longer has value?"

Renault looked at Ugarte.

"Louis," he said, his voice husky. "You cannot believe him. He'd say anything to try to divide us."

"That's true," Fraser acknowledged. "That doesn't mean I'm wrong." To Renault, he said, "_You_ can taxi the plane out of the hangar. Let _him _get out to guide _you_." He thought, furiously. "Discard your guns first, so you are both unarmed. They are impractical on a plane in flight, anyway." He added, helpfully, "I would suggest the toilet."

"Yes," he murmured. "I can taxi the plane. You have shown me how, Miguel."

"Louis, this is ridiculous," Ugarte began, in an eminently reasonable voice. Then, he moved suddenly, pulling his gun out of his pocket and aiming it at Renault.

The sound of the gunshots in the small cabin was deafening. Ugarte looked down at the hole in his dinner jacket, right over his heart. His mouth worked. "This was not ... part of ... the ... plan. " Then, he fell to the floor, and lay face up, dark eyes open and staring.

"Oh my God, Louis," Victor cried. "You killed him!"

Renault looked down at the hole in his own dinner jacket, where he had shot through the fabric of his pocket. He looked over his shoulder at the photograph on the wall. Ugarte's bullet was lodged in the center of Tuppy Harrington's decolletage. He sat heavily on the seat behind Victor, as if his legs would no longer hold him.

"Good shot," Fraser said, meaning it. If that was the drugs talking, so be it.

Renault erupted in laughter. "Miguel was right. I never do think things through." He ran his hand through his hair, a rueful expression on his face. "I can taxi a plane out of a hangar. But I cannot fly it. Can you, Benton?"

"No," he said, quite honestly. The only time he had been behind the controls of an aircraft, it had crashed into the Canadian wilderness.

Renault grimaced. "I must assume that is the truth. I know you can't, Victor." He looked down at Ugarte's body. "Now, what?" he muttered to himself.

"You could let us go," Fraser suggested. "Turn yourself in."

Renault laughed, again, but didn't answer. He stood, looking down at the body for several long moments, then regarded Victor with calculating eyes. "You and Miguel shot each other."

Victor started. "What?"

Renault continued thinking aloud. "Yes! You and Miguel shot each other!" He put his hands on his hips. "That will buy us some time."

"Time for what?" Fraser asked, with a sinking feeling.

"To escape, of course," he replied, distractedly. "Canada is only a few hundred miles by car."

"Two hundred eighty nine miles," Fraser corrected automatically, before he could stop himself.

"Right," Renault nodded. "We can be out of the country before the authorities sort this mess out. With Abdul, Karim, Emil, Miguel and ... uh ..." he coughed, apologetically. "Victor ... dead, no one can reveal my involvement."

"The police will – " Fraser cut in.

"The police will figure it out eventually, I know. But, Miguel was big on obfuscation. It will buy me time." He smiled. "And ten million dollars in an account I can access anywhere in the world will buy me whatever I need after that." He sighed. "I am sorry, Victor. But, you shot Miguel." He bent and pried Ugarte's gun out of his hand.

"Wait!" Fraser said, talking fast. "Victor is still a valuable – !"

"That was Miguel's plan," he said, shaking his head. "I am quite content with Walter's millions." He shrugged. "Besides, I cannot handle the two of you by myself." He raised the gun.

Victor stiffened in his seat.

"Louis!" Fraser was desperate. "Wait! Please, Louis!"

The use of his first name got Renault's attention. He lowered the gun.

"If you shoot Victor, you'll have to kill me, too. I'll make sure of it," he said, with conviction. "But," he paused, licking his dry lips. "I'll make a ... a deal ... with you. If you spare him ... I'll go with you." He swallowed. "Willingly."

Victor and Renault stared at him.

"No, Ben – " Victor protested.

"Do you mean ... what I think you mean?" Renault asked, his breath hitching. Despite himself, Fraser was a little flattered at the eager look on his face.

He nodded, solemnly. "Leave Victor here, unharmed. Stun him, if you feel you must." He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "I'll go with you. I won't try to escape. I won't ... fight you."

Renault gulped. "You will ... submit?"

He shook his head. "No ... but I won't fight you."

"You bandy words," he protested. "There is no difference."

"There is ... to me," Fraser said, quietly.

Renault stared at him, clearly wavering.

"I give you my word," he added. There was no doubting the weight of that statement.

Victor heard it in his voice. "Ben ... don't. Not on my account."

Fraser looked at him. "There's no other option."

"No!" He fumbled for the seatbelt with his bound hands. "I won't let you – " Renault zapped him with the taser. Victor jerked and juddered, then slumped to the side. Only the seatbelt kept him from falling to the floor.

Renault pointed the gun at Victor's head. "I am going to release your seatbelt, Benton. If you break your promise, I will kill him."

"I gave you my word," he said, with dignity. Then, he inclined his head toward the stricken man. "Thank you."

Renault nodded. He quickly undid the seatbelt, then stepped back warily, motioning Fraser ahead of him.

Fraser took one last look at the semi-conscious diplomat. "Goodbye, Victor," he said, clearly and distinctly. "Tell Ilsa ... well, never mind. She'll understand.'" He turned and walked to the door of the cabin.

At the top of the airstairs, Renault spoke into his ear. "We will walk to the van. Slowly. I will shoot if you break your promise."

"I know," Fraser said, tersely. "You don't need threats." He stepped carefully down the stairs, Renault close behind.

When they reached the bottom, Renault thrust the gun in the small of his back. "Slowly, now. Get in the back of the van. Make yourself comfortable. I will stun you again – " As Fraser jerked in reaction, he said, "I am many things, Benton, but I am not naive. You will have to earn my trust." He added, sheepishly. "Besides, I like to shoot the taser."

They had proceeded about a hundred feet, halfway between the jet and the van when the headlights of a vehicle blazed through the fog. It was coming too fast for them to get to cover. His heart skipped a beat as Fraser recognized the configuration. Renault stopped in his tracks, and stepped behind him. He locked one arm around Fraser's neck, and pressed the gun to his temple. They stood there, transfixed, as the car squealed to a stop.

"What is that?" Renault muttered, squinting through the fog and the glare of the headlights. "The limousine?"

"That, m'sieu," Fraser said, triumphantly, "is a 1972 Buick Riviera, in near mint condition."


	28. Chapter 28

**CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT**

Ten minutes earlier ...

Ray peered out the windshield. The headlights of the Riv illuminated a sign. In large block letters, it read:

**PRIVATE ROAD – NO TRESPASSING. VIOLATORS WILL BE PROSECUTED.**

He looked over his shoulder. "Is this it?"

"I think so," Ilsa said, uncertainly. She had steered him wrong once a few miles back, losing her bearings in the thickening fog. They had lost precious time on a road that had deadended at a creek, the apparent source of the fog that was blanketing the area.

"I hope you're right," Ray muttered, goosing the accelerator. A few minutes later, he pulled up to a ten foot cyclone fence with a similar sign on it. The gate was open. A chain dangled from it, the lock nowhere to be seen. This looked promising. Ray turned off the headlights, and proceeded with parking lights only. They had shut off the red light/siren when they left the main road. No need to announce their presence too soon. Besides, the fog was only bouncing the light back at them.

Thatcher shifted in her seat, hissing as she moved her swollen ankle. Ray winced in sympathy. Dief panted over his shoulder until he complained and pushed him away. He kept his speed at 20 mph, grateful the road was straight and smooth.

"There!" Meg pointed. A runway paralleled the road, illuminated by low-lying lights.

They let out a collective sigh of relief. A few minutes later, Ray could make out a hazy collection of buildings in the distance, ablaze with light. He turned off the parking lights and slowed even more. The Riv crept forward on little cat feet.

Dief, with his superior eyesight, started whining a moment before Ray and Meg saw movement outside the airplane hangar. Ray switched on the headlights and floored it. The shadowy figures froze, then resolved into two men. As he watched, Louis Renault locked his arm around Fraser's neck, and stuck a gun to his temple. Ray hit the brakes, squealing to a stop twenty feet from the standing men. He opened his door and stepped out, cautiously.

Renault squinted in the glare. "You!" The astonished look on his face would have been comical if he wasn't holding that gun.

"Me," Ray confirmed. He hunkered behind the car door, holding Harrington's gun in a two-handed grip. "Hey, Benny."

"Hello, Ray."

"You OK?"

"I'm fine," he replied. "Thank you kindly for coming."

"Sorry, I'm late."

"No problem."

Renault's eyes whipped back and forth between them. "B-but, he hates you!" he spluttered.

"Nah," Ray said. "He just gets on my nerves once in awhile."

The doors on the passenger side opened. Ilsa and Meg, a crutch under her arm, emerged.

"Constable! Are you alright?" she called, alarmed at his appearance. His shirt was bloodstained, his hair mussed, his face pale and strained. And, a killer held a gun to his head.

"I"m fine, sir," he said, struggling to stand more erect.

"But, all that blood!" she protested. She glared at Renault. "What did you do to him?!"

Fraser felt his flinch as the Frenchman was subjected to the full force of the wrath of the Dragon Lady. He was grateful that the gun was not, apparently, on a hair trigger.

"The blood isn't mine, sir," he said, quickly. "I am ... uninjured."

"Louis!" Ilsa cried. "Let Benton go!"

Renault tightened his grip on his neck and dug the barrel of the gun into the flesh at his temple. Fraser winced, but held very still. He refrained from shivering with an effort of will. At least, Renault was blocking the wind that was at their backs. The air was bitingly cold and his shirt was still damp.

"We are taking the van," Renault shouted. "If you try to stop me, I will kill him!"

"Calm down, Renault. Let's talk this over," Ray said, soothingly, keeping his own gun steady. He assessed the situation. Benny, arms bound behind him, looked pretty ragged. But, he was ambulatory. Ray wondered briefly whose blood was on his shirt, then dismissed it as irrelevant for now. Tactically, he couldn't risk a shot. He might hit Fraser. Even if he got Renault, the Frenchman could still squeeze off a round. And at that range, he couldn't miss. Then, the blood on Fraser's shirt _would _be his own.

"There is nothing to talk about!" Renault replied. He tightened his grip, bending Fraser backward. He would have gasped in pain, but he couldn't draw breath.

"OK!" Ray shouted. Renault eased the pressure on Fraser's throat and he sucked in a rasping breath. "OK," he said, again. "We'll stand down. Take the van. Just let Fraser go."

"I am not a fool, even though you played me for one!" Renault spat back. "He is my ticket out of here. Get out of my way or I will shoot him!"

"Alright! Alright!" Ray ostentatiously stepped around the front of the Riv and walked over to Ilsa and Meg, never taking the gun or his eyes off the target. Renault's eyes followed him.

"OK, ladies. You heard the man. Let's give him some space." He tried to herd them away from the Riv.

Meg wasn't budging.

He grabbed her arm, but she shook him off.

"Detective," she protested. "He's got a gun to Fraser's head!"

"My point exactly, Inspector!" Ray wanted to kiss her again. This little drama was keeping Renault's attention fixed on them and nothing else. "Please, Inspector," he said, raising his eyebrows meaningfully.

"Come, Meg," Ilsa said, taking her arm.

Meg moved, albeit reluctantly. Ray led them away from the car to a spot on the tarmac. He didn't lower his weapon, but motioned with it for Renault to move to the van.

He whispered in Fraser's ear. "Walk to the van. Slowly."

Fraser obeyed. But, with Renault's arm around his neck, he couldn't look down and he stumbled on an uneven patch of paving. He lurched, the gun no longer touching his skin.

Renault's scream deafened him. From the corner of his eye, Fraser saw Diefenbaker's jaws clamped on his gun hand. Bones crunched under the pressure. The gun dropped to the concrete. Fortunately, it didn't go off. Dief grabbed it in his mouth and ran to Thatcher. She bent, taking the weapon with a little moue of distaste. Then, she joined Ray in covering Renault, wiping her hand on her leggings.

"It's over, Renault," Ray shouted.

Renault straightened slowly, holding his bleeding hand close to his body. Then, he grabbed Fraser's bloody shirtfront and yanked him close. Ray tightened his grip on the gun. So, did Thatcher. But, there was no shot to take. Renault gripped the back of Fraser's head with his good hand and kissed him, hard, on the lips.

Ray nearly dropped his gun. He stole a glance at Thatcher. The Dragon Lady looked as flummoxed as he was.

The Frenchman released the Mountie. Fraser, off balance literally and figuratively, stumbled backward. He dropped to one knee, a stunned expression on his face.

Renault smiled a Cheshire cat smile and raised his hands over his head. "I should remind you that I have full diplomatic immunity under the treaty of – "

Whatever treaty he was going to reference was lost in the roar of the engine as the Riv lunged forward like a thoroughbred out of the gate. It was heading straight for Fraser. And Renault behind him. Ray moved, but he knew he was too far away. Then, Renault did the inexplicable. In one fluid movement, he pulled Fraser to his feet and hurled him out of the path of the rampaging car. Fraser barreled into Ray, knocking them both to the ground.

Ray would never forget the sound of the Riviera hitting Renault. It was a solid, meaty thud. The Frenchman screamed as he fell. The car ran over him, lurching twice, like it was negotiating a speed bump, and kept going.

Ray scrambled to his feet and ran after the Riv. He started to take aim at the back end of his beloved car, when it squealed to a stop. The driver's door opened and Abdul stumbled out, his bound hands raised high over his head. "I surrender! Don't shoot!" he shouted. "I surrender!"

Ray blinked. The whole thing had happened so fast ... He looked back to see Benny on his knees beside Renault. The Frenchman sprawled, broken and bloody, on the macadam. Ilsa leaned over Fraser's shoulder, a hand to her shocked face. Ray ran to the Riv, where Dief was barking furiously at Abdul. Ray shoved the man against the car, hands on the hood, then kicked his legs apart with his foot.

"If he moves, rip his throat out," he told the wolf. Dief snarled his acknowledgment.

Ray grabbed the radio, quickly calling for backup and an ambulance. Thatcher hobbled up, keeping her gun trained on Abdul. She looked as sick as Ray felt.

"You got him?" he said.

"I got him," she said, keeping the gun leveled on the waiter. Dief woofed. "_We_ got him," she amended.

Ray hesitated, but there was no fight left in the young man. He lay across the hood, head buried in the crook of his arm, weeping uncontrollably.

He ran back to Renault. One look at the downed man and Ray knew the ambulance would be too late. He knelt beside Fraser.

Renault stared up at the foggy night. His breath came in wheezing gasps, blood bubbling at his lips. "Benton? Are you ... there? I ... cannot ... see ... " His handsome face twisted and he moaned.

"I'm here," Fraser said, tightly.

"T-take my ... hand ..."

"I can't," he said. "You tied my hands." Ray glanced at the tape around his wrists. There was no getting that off without a knife. He had one in the Riv, but he wasn't leaving now.

Ilsa knelt and took Renault's groping hand in hers.

"Ambulance is on its way, Benny," Ray murmured.

Fraser looked at him, expressionless. He knew there was no help for Renault, but he nodded and repeated what Ray said.

Incredibly, Renault laughed. It was small and hurt him, but he managed it. "I do ... not think ... I will ... be ... here when ... it ... arrives," he murmured. He groaned and shuddered, then began shivering violently. Ray took off his jacket and laid it over him.

"Don't try to talk, Louis," Ilsa urged.

He ignored her advice. "Benton ...tell ... me ... " he coughed and a gout of blood stained his lips. "W-would you ... have kept ... your word?" he gasped.

Fraser was silent.

"Tell ... me," he begged. "Please ..."

"I ..." he began, then stopped.

Ray glanced at him. Benny's face was a mask.

Renault wheezed, "Please ..."

"He always has," Ray said, taking pity on the dying man.

Renault's bloody lips quirked at the corners. "Merci ... " he whispered. Then, he shuddered all over and was still. His gray eyes, pale and fixed, stared up at the fog.

Fraser broke the silence. "He was a monster," he whispered. He looked at Ray, a bewildered expression on his haggard face. "But ... he saved me ..."

"Don't try to figure it out, Benny. I'm just glad that he did." Ray frowned. There was something wrong with his eyes. The pupils were shrunken to tiny little points. He glanced at Ilsa. Her blue eyes looked normal. Actually, the pupils were wide and dark. The ambient light was dim where they were.

"Hey, Benny," he murmured. "Are you OK? I mean, for real?"

"I'm stoned, Ray," he admitted.

In spite of everything, Ray laughed. Those were three words he never expected to hear from Fraser's lips. Not if he lived to see a hundred. At that moment, Dief rushed up and licked Fraser's face exuberantly, nearly bowling him over. "I'm alright, boy," he said, with a smile. It was small and sad, but Ray was glad to see it.

"C'mon, Dief. Let's give him some air," Ray said, standing. He pushed the wolf away. "You got guard duty." The wolf wagged his tail and trotted back to the Riv. Thatcher, still holding the gun on Abdul, reached down and patted his head.

Ray looked down at Fraser. His friend looked like hell, staring at the body and shivering with the cold. Ray wished he still had his jacket. But, it seemed bad form to take it from Renault now.

"Ilsa," he said. "Give me a hand, will ya?" Between the two of them, they got Benny on his feet. He leaned heavily on Ray for a minute, straightened and took a deep breath.

"Miguel Ugarte is dead, Ray. Renault killed him. He's in the plane." He looked at Ilsa. Her face was ashen, her lower lip torn where she worried it with her teeth. She was staring at the blood on his shirt. Mindful of her reaction to the Polaroid in the Chippewa Room, he said, very gently. "Ilsa, Victor too is – "

"NO!" she shouted at him at the top of her voice.

Fraser stumbled back at the force of her vehemence. He tried again to tell her that her husband was still in the plane, stunned but alive. "Ilsa, Victor is – "

"NO!" She put her hands over her ears, and stamped her foot. "NO!"

Ray grabbed her arm. She shook him off. "I WON'T LISTEN! I WON'T!"

"But, Ilsa – " Fraser begged.

"NO!" she screamed in his face, then burst into tears.

Ray pulled her into his arms. She buried her face in his shoulder, and sobbed. He bent his head over hers, whispering soothing nonsense words in her ear.

"But, Ray," Fraser began. "Victor is – "

"Not now, Benny!" he growled. He had his hands full. Poor kid, her hopes dashed, her husband lost a second time ...

Fraser subsided, utterly at a loss. He was ill-equipped to handle emotional displays when he was at his best. And, at the moment, he was far, far from his best. The only thing to do was wait for the storm to pass. Besides, he didn't have the strength to do anything but stand and shiver. His limbs were leaden, and his head ached fiercely.

He looked up to see the Inspector staring at him from fifty feet away. He felt acutely self-conscious under her scrutiny. He glanced down at his bloody shirt, filthy from writhing on the floor of the storage room. His overheated brain catalogued his shortcomings. Out of uniform ... face dirty ... illicit drugs in his system. With his hands tied behind his back, he couldn't even smooth his hair. He shrugged, helplessly.

Then, their eyes met.

Fraser drew a sharp breath as the air between them crackled and sizzled, like the taser building its charge. His aches and pains disappeared and he no longer felt the cold. Something ignited and kindled inside him. He was an ember about to burst into flame. A flame that would consume him and her in a glorious holocaust. It would melt the polar icecaps and –

She turned hastily away, bringing the gun to bear on Abdul with fresh intensity.

Beside her, Dief cocked his head. He looked quizzically back and forth between the man and woman. It seemed to Fraser that all his fur stood on end, as if the wolf, too, had felt the electricity between them.

At that ridiculous thought, he realized that his drug-addled brain had betrayed him yet again. There was no electrically-charged air between himself and his commanding officer. There was only ... air. He was mortified at the expression that must have been on his face. The same hungry yearning look that Renault had directed his way so often this night. No wonder she had looked away and was pointedly refusing to look back at him. He realized he was still staring and whipped his head around. The sudden movement made his vision swim. When it cleared, he found he was now staring at the Gulfstream. He blinked hard. Once ... twice ...

He butted his head against his friend's shoulder. "Ray."

"Not now, Benny," Ray insisted, as Ilsa ground her face into his chest. The shirt there was wet with her hot tears and clung to his skin.

Head butt. "Ray."

Head butt. "Ray."

Head butt. "Ray!"

"What?!" he snapped.

"Turn around!"

Something in his voice got through. Ray looked over his shoulder. As he stared at the jet, dumbfounded, a grin slowly transformed his face. He gently pushed Ilsa away from his shoulder. Then, he lifted her chin until she met his eyes. Her blotchy, snotty, tear-stained face had never looked more lovely.

"Look, kid," he whispered, nodding over his shoulder.

She blearily followed his gaze. A dirty, bearded gray-haired man in a faded denim shirt was descending the airstairs of the jet. His progress was painfully slow, as he gripped the railing with bound hands.

"V-victor," she choked. Then, louder. "Victor!"

He looked up. "Ilsa!" he called, his voice breaking. "Ilsa!"

Ray released her. She ran like the wind in those trippy high heels, her long skirt flaring. All eyes, even Dief's and Abdul's, turned to watch as Ilsa Lund wrapped her arms around her husband and kissed him till he wept. They sank to the bottom step, his head buried in her shoulder, her arms clutching him tightly.

"Awwww, will you look at that," Ray said, mistily. "Makes it all worthwhile, eh, Benny?"

"Yes, Ray."

Ray sniffed and cleared his throat. "This fog," he complained, as he swiped at his nose and eyes.

"I remember a night just like this," a voice said from Fraser's other side. His father in full dress uniform, stood there, beaming at the sight of the happy reunion. "Freak weather that year. I had been tracking Black Jack McCoy through all the ginjoints in all the towns in all the Territories before I finally caught up with him. When I made the Pass, the fog was thick as pea soup. Barely made it home, then your mother and I were snowed in for a week." There was a glint in his eye as he regarded his son. "You know, Benton, I think that was the beginning of a beautiful baby."

Fraser barked a laugh, but cut it short at the stabbing pain in his ribs.

Ray scowled. "It's not funny, Benny."

"No, Ray," he said, smiling despite his aching head. "It's not a laughing matter a'tall."

Ray clapped a hand on his back. "C'mon, I got a penknife in the glove. Let's cut that tape off." He frowned. His friend didn't move. The muscles under Ray's hand were as rigid as wood. "Benny?"

"Benton?" his father said, peering into his face. "You don't look so good, son."

Without a word or a sound, Fraser toppled forward, like a felled tree. Ray lunged, barely catching him before he hit the ground. He lowered Fraser's limp body to the tarmac, then fumbled for a pulse. Ray breathed a sigh of relief when he found it. And another one as he heard the sound of sirens in the distance.


	29. Chapter 29

**CHAPTER TWENTY NINE**

Her footsteps echoed off the hard surface of the concrete floor and walls, reverberating in the narrow space. The smell of bromine filled his nose as she splashed through the puddle in the center of the floor. The overhead fluorescents hummed and flickered. Above the sound of her footfalls, he strained to hear. Something was coming ... something wicked.

"Put me down, sir," he pleaded, breathless from bouncing up and down. "Save yourself!"

"Don't be sexist, Constable!" she retorted. "I can carry a fellow officer when he needs me to, as well as any man." She stumped forward, crutch under one arm, himself over her shoulder. The overhead lights flickered and went out.

Mist rose off the stone floor. Stone? Not a moment before, it was concrete, painted industrial green. He lifted his head with difficulty. Where there had been a long, straight corridor of the same ugly color, there was now a twisting, turning tunnel with walls of stone. Damp stone, caked with mold and hung with cobwebs. Torches on the walls dimly lit the dark, dank dungeon. His heart skipped a beat at the whining, crackling sound behind them.

The monster was here.

It turned the corner clumsily, careening from wall to wall, then brayed in triumph when it beheld them. Despite the lurching, shambling gait, Louis Renault was gaining on them. He smiled his charming smile. It was a grotesque leer on his dead face.

"Meg!" he pleaded. "Leave me! Run for your life!"

"I told you to stick to small talk, Fraser!" she complained. She hoisted him higher on her shoulder. "So, tell me ... how's the weather back there?"

Renault was so close now he could smell his hot, wolfish breath.

"Time to keep your promise, Benton," the dead man whispered. Then, he reached out with a cold, bloody hand and touched his cheek.

He screamed, jolting awake to big brown eyes inches from his own. He jerked in alarm, then stilled as Diefenbaker whimpered and laved his face with his tongue.

"OK, boy. I'm OK," he muttered, rubbing his soft ears before pushing the worried animal down.

Dief sat on his haunches and cocked his head. He made an inquiring noise.

"Yes, a very bad dream," Fraser conceded. He lay back on the pillow, concentrating on slowing his racing heart. As he stared up at the ceiling with its fancy plaster cornices and crystal dome light, it gradually dawned on him that this was not the cracked stained ceiling of his apartment. He slid his eyes around a large, well-appointed room, filled with books and expensive furniture. A small reading lamp on a table across the room provided the only illumination. Though the heavy brocade drapes were drawn, dimming the room, he easily recognized the library situated on the ground floor of the Consulate.

He was lying on a cot. Judging from the slightly musty smell, it was one of several that were usually kept in the basement of the building. He lifted the edge of the blanket with clumsy fingers. The scent of Irish Spring wafted up. He recognized the T-shirt, sweatpants, and white socks he usually kept in the gym bag in his office. There was a bandage in the crook of his right arm. On his left arm where Louis Renault had injected him with his special cocktail, there was a matching bandage.

He raised himself up on his elbows. Big mistake. His head pounded so hard, he thought he might actually pass out. He lay back down, breathing slowly and deeply, until the pain and vertigo receded. The nausea took a bit longer to fade. When he opened his eyes again, Dief was there, looking worried.

"I'm OK," he reassured him. The wolf made a doubtful noise, but curled up on the Afghan rug again. He rested his head on his paws, but didn't close his eyes.

Fraser schooled himself to be patient and lay still, taking stock. He hurt all over. His head throbbed. His mouth was dry as a desert. He felt ... raw, as if the skin had been flayed from his body, exposing his nerve endings to the air. The last thing he remembered ... was the sight of Victor Laszlo on the bottom step of the airstairs of the Gulfstream, with Ilsa Lund's arms wrapped tightly around him. After that, it got fuzzy. He had no idea how he had come to be on a cot in the library of the Consulate. Or what time it was. Or, the day of the week, for that matter. He fingered the soft cotton of the faded Tshirt. Or, how he had come to be in these clothes.

He turned on his side with great difficulty. _Everything_ hurt. But, he was rewarded for his effort by the sight of a glass of water sitting on a low table, just within reach. He licked dry, chapped lips and concentrated on raising himself to a sitting position. Once upright, he breathed deeply until the room stopped spinning, then swung his legs over the side of the cot. Though it was an incredibly painful undertaking and far more exhausting than it should have been, he was pleased to see his legs obeying him once more. He reached for the glass with a shaking hand.

The first sip was sublime. It tasted like the purest water from a glacial rivulet in summer, and not at all the chemically dense city water he knew it must be. He waited a moment, but his stomach behaved itself. He drained the glass without spilling a drop, though it took both hands to hold it steady. He set it back on the table, next to a folded newspaper. Parts of a gigantic headline caught his eye. He spread it open on the table.

It was the Chicago Sun-Times, dated Sunday March 16. Banner headlines screamed:

**VICTOR** **LASZLO ALIVE!**

**KIDNAPING AND MURDER AT HARRINGTON BALL**

**DRAMATIC RESCUE AT AIRFIELD**

A handsome robust Victor beamed at him from the front page. The same photo, Fraser recalled, had run with the news of his death three months ago. There was a candid shot of Ray in his tuxedo shirtsleeves, conferring with Lieutenant Welsh; police cars and the Waldorf-Astoria marquee filled in the background. Below the fold, a boxed article sported a picture of the Inspector, looking sternly professional in red serge. He recognized it as the official photo taken when she assumed her Consulate post. The byline read "exclusive to Basil Thune, society editor."

He read quickly, though it made his head ache worse. There was much that was left out but the essential events of the evening were there. According to the Sun-Times, he had cleverly allowed himself to be captured in the basement room so as to insinuate himself with the kidnapers as the inside man. Yes, I was very clever, he thought wryly, to let Abdul sneak up on me like that. No mention of the grim business in the basement with the taser. Or the drama onboard the jet. The explosions at a marina that claimed the lives of the Spanish limousine and a boat belonging to Louis Renault were news to him. Abdul Jabbar, identified as the sole survivor of the "Chicago-Casablanca conspiracy" was in custody, said to be fully cooperating with the police.

Ray was the source of much of the information in the main article. Some comments were attributed to the Lieutenant. There was a terse statement from Agent Ford. "Today, at 0430 hours, the FBI was informed by Lieutenant Harding Welsh of the Chicago Police Department that two officers on undercover assignment at the Diplomacy Ball uncovered a kidnaping plot, rescued the victim, and arrested the surviving perpetrator. The Agency applauds the actions of Detective Ray Vecchio of the Chicago P.D., and RCMP officers, Constable Benton Fraser and Inspector Margaret Thatcher. The heroic efforts of these law enforcement officers saved the life of a great man. In light of the exigent circumstances, no charges are contemplated against the officers for failing to report the kidnaping to the FBI."

The Inspector's interview filled in some of the details missing from the main piece, but she had declined to comment on what had brought the undercover officers to the Ball in the first place. Fraser understood her reticence. The families of Marta and Christina should be fully informed before the press was made aware of the connection. In response to Mr. Thune's request to interview her junior officer, the Inspector had stated that Constable Fraser was under a doctor's care, recovering from injuries sustained in the line of duty. Though he was expected to make a full recovery, he was unavailable for interviews. Fraser thought his current sorry state might just be worth it, if it served to keep him out of the media spotlight.

When asked where Victor Laszlo was at this time, the Inspector replied: "Mr. Laszlo has endured a hell that I cannot begin to imagine. His good friend, the philanthropist Walter Harrington, has arranged his retreat to an undisclosed location where he can receive medical attention and recover from his ordeal in peace. I trust the ladies and gentlemen of the press will respect his privacy." The article went on to speculate that Harrington had whisked him away to his private villa on Mykonos, or his compound in the Cote d'Azur, or perhaps, his pineapple plantation on Maui.

Fraser wished he'd had a chance to say goodbye to Victor and Ilsa, but he understood the need to escape the attention. It dawned on him then that Ilsa was barely mentioned in the paper. Just a brief reference that she had been part of the diplomatic team on Victor's last mission and was not implicated in the kidnaping plot. Nothing of her crucial role in the events of the evening. Or that she was Victor Laszlo' wife. Ray and the Inspector were keeping her secret.

He looked at the date on the banner and rubbed his jaw. Judging by the stubble he encountered, at least 24 hours had elapsed since his last shave on Saturday morning. He frowned. Unless someone had shaved him, as well as bathed and dressed him. Was that today's newspaper, making this still Sunday? He glanced at the carriage clock on the mantle. 8:29. Am or pm was anybody's guess. He contemplated getting to his feet and pulling the drapes, but he doubted he'd get five paces before falling on his face.

Before he could formulate a plan, the front doorbell rang. That was an understatement. Whoever it was leaned on the bell, making it peal non-stop. The identity of the ersatz Quasimodo was revealed in the next instant. Ray Vecchio shouted, "TURNBULL! LET ME IN! TURNBULL!" as he pounded on the door.

Dief sprang to his feet, his fur rising along the ridge of his back as he growled, low in his throat.

"TURNBULL!"

Fraser heard running feet in the hall outside the library. Turnbull must have opened the heavy front door because he next heard a cacophony of voices clamoring for the Detective.

"CHICAGO PD! LET ME THROUGH!" Ray yelled.

A stumping sound down the hall outside the library, then "TURNBULL! CLOSE THAT DOOR!"

"YES, MA'AM! I'M TRYING, MA'AM! MIND YOUR CAMERA, SIR!" Turnbull shouted. The door slammed. Quiet descended.

Fraser and Dief exchanged glances. Footsteps in the hall, the dull murmur of voices, then the door to the library creaked open. Ray stuck his head around the jamb. He grinned broadly when he saw Fraser looking back at him. "Benny! You're awake!"

"Yes, Ray," he croaked.

The detective flipped the wall switch for the ceiling lights, then ushered Inspector Thatcher ahead of him. Meg, clad in black slacks and white sweater, stumped with her crutch to a leather armchair arranged in a grouping around the coffee table. She sat heavily, propping the crutch against the table.

Fraser had tried to rise when she entered the room. She saw him struggle and rolled her eyes. "At ease, Constable," she said, impatiently. Ray set an ottoman in front of her, and gently lifted her bound ankle in its fuzzy pink slipper on to it.

"Thank you, Detective," she said, surprised at his solicitude.

"No problem." He shrugged out of his overcoat and tossed it over the back of another chair. He sat, sighing deeply as he wriggled his back end. He had been on his feet for most of the last several hours.

"How do you feel, Constable?" she asked, formally.

"I'm fine, sir," he rasped.

"Fine, huh?" Ray glanced at Meg. "I told you he'd say that."

"Yes, you did," she acknowledged.

"But, I am," he repeated.

Ray looked him over. With Frannie's makeup washed away, his black eye stood out starkly in his pale face. There was a dark circle under the other one. But, they no longer were the eyes of a hopped-up junkie looking to score his next fix. Ray knew that you couldn't go through what Benny had gone through without residual effects, both physical and mental. That was a fact of life, but one that his stubborn friend refused to accept. Ray had seen the grimace as he tried to stand when Thatcher entered the room. The big goof was obviously in pain, but doing his damnedest to conceal it. He glanced at Meg to see if she was buying it. She was looking at Fraser as skeptically as he was. Ray decided it was time to impart a lesson ... and have a little fun.

"Sure," he said, heartily. "Anybody can see you're fine."

Meg shot him a strange look. Maybe she should loan Vecchio her glasses. Her junior officer sat stiffly on the edge of the cot, his white-knuckled hands gripping the sides. His face was pasty with the strain of holding himself upright.

"I'll get you a chair," Ray offered.

"That's not necessary, Ray," he protested. "I'm quite comfortable here – " But Ray had already moved an armchair up, so it faced the Inspector.

"Stand up, Benny. I"ll move the cot out of the way."

Fraser stared at him suspiciously, but Ray gave him his best altar-boy look. He glanced at the Inspector. She was watching him like a hawk.

"I like eyes at a level, Constable," she said, patting the seat of the chair.

Fraser took a deep breath and pushed himself up off the cot. He managed a few inches before his shaking arms gave out and he dropped back. Red-faced, he looked up to see Ray smirking at him. Then, his friend held out both hands. With an air of injured dignity, Fraser took them. Between the two of them, he managed to lurch to his feet and shuffle to the chair. Fraser leaned back, embarrassed by his weakness but grateful for the support the chair gave his back and legs. Ray moved the cot back against the wall and resumed his seat, without comment.

"Comfortable, Constable?" Meg asked, politely.

"Yes, sir."

"Good." Without skipping a beat, she bellowed for Turnbull. The men jumped, startled at the volume. So did Dief.

The young officer appeared at the open door. He looked harried, but managed a quick smile for Fraser. "Yes, sir?"

"Bring a tray, " she said, vaguely. "And Fraser's medication."

"I don't need any – "

"Doctor's orders," Ray cut in.

"But – "

"Don't try to minimize, Fraser," Thatcher said, in a steely tone. Her expression softened. "Victor told me what Renault did to you." It made her queasy to think of his ordeal at the hands of that psychopath. "You were shot eleven times with a taser!"

"Twelve," he corrected automatically, recalling the first zap that Abdul had administered. On reflection, he realized that hadn't helped his case.

"Ouch." Ray winced in sympathy.

Meg added, "He also told me about the drugs."

Fraser flushed with shame. "Yes." He swallowed, before saying, "Sir, I ... must submit myself for disciplinary action. I - I took cocaine, methamphetamine, benzedrine, others ... I don't know the names, but I'm sure they were illicit."

"Noted, Constable," she said, briskly. "I have already devised a suitable punishment."

"But, he didn't _take_ the drugs," Ray protested. "Renault stuck him! There's a difference!"

"I consented to it, Ray," he pointed out.

"You had no choice!"

"Detective, this is an RCMP internal matter," Meg said, calmly. "Please stay out of it."

As his friend bristled on his behalf, Fraser said, "Please, Ray. The Inspector is correct." Ray subsided, though he continued to scowl at the Dragon Lady.

"Very well, Constable," she said, taking a breath. "I have thought very carefully about the discipline that such a transgression requires. And I have decided – "

She stopped as Turnbull returned. Ray moved the newspaper out of his way so he could set his laden tray on the coffee table. It contained pots of tea and coffee and accouterments, a plate of cookies, a glass of water, and a little dish containing three pills in varying pastel hues. Thatcher thanked him and he left the room.

Ray poured tea for her and coffee for himself. He tossed a cookie to Dief, then took a bite of one. Oatmeal raisin, still warm from the oven.

Meg settled back with her cup. "As I was saying, Fraser. I have thought long and hard about the appropriate discipline for your offense." She sipped tea, leaving her subordinate in suspense.

Fraser waited patiently, but Ray couldn't stand it. He cracked first. "Well?! What is it already?!"

She ignored his outburst. "Your punishment, Constable, is ... to take the pills on that dish, four times a day, until further notice."

Fraser opened his mouth to protest. One look at her face and he closed it again. "Yes, sir," he said, crisply.

Ray couldn't keep the smirk off his face as he handed him the glass of water. Fraser dutifully swallowed each pill in turn. When he was finished, he accepted Ray's offer of tea. He sipped the hot liquid carefully. It tasted like the nectar of the gods, dispelling the foul taste in his mouth. He declined a cookie, waiting to see how the tea settled.

Meg settled her ankle more comfortably. "How bad is it out there?" she asked Ray.

"It's intense. All the locals, plus some of the national press," he said. "I almost had to use my gun to get through." He pointed at the newspaper. "Nice picture of you in there."

"You, too."

He frowned. "I thought it made my nose look big."

"Not at all," she said, unconvincingly.

"Mr. Thune?" Fraser asked.

"You promised him an exclusive after the ball," Meg explained.

"I did. Thank you, sir."

She nodded. "I knew you'd want to keep your word."

Fraser froze with the cup halfway to his lips. Her words evoked an image of a dying Louis Renault, blindly groping for his hand. He ruthlessly pushed those thoughts away, and took refuge behind his teacup.

"Thune's as happy as a pig in shi – I mean, mud," Ray said. "But, that mob outside isn't thrilled. I threw 'em a bone or two, but they're looking for some real meat."

"Let them eat cake," she said, with a cavalier wave of her hand. At his skeptical look, she added, "I'll give them another statement tomorrow. Mr. Thune can keep his exclusive a little while longer."

"You know who they really want," he said, looking meaningfully at Fraser.

He gulped hot tea as the Inspector turned her gaze his way. "M-me?"

"You," they chorused. She added, "Don't worry, Constable. You're under doctor's orders not to be disturbed."

He breathed a sigh of relief. "I have a doctor?"

"Chief of Staff at Loyola and Harrington's personal physician," Ray said, then added, in admiration, "One phone call from ol' Walter was all it took. The doc met the ambulance at the ER and personally checked you out. Then, he arranged your transfer here." At Fraser's quizzical look, he explained, "The hospital would be a bad place to be when the story broke." He made a face. "And, Agent Ford's pretty pissed. We figured he couldn't bother you here."

"Oh." He sipped tea. After a moment, he said, "Marta and Christina. They weren't mentioned in the articles."

"We held that back for now," Ray confirmed, his face somber. "But, their families know." He looked down at his hands. "I talked to Marta's parents. Told them what she did ... how she was a hero ... that without her ..." He trailed off. "I think it helped."

Fraser nodded. Perhaps, the knowledge of their daughter's courage and resourcefulness would ease their pain. He hoped so. He sipped his tea in silence, then asked, curiously. "How did you know we were at the airfield? That Ugarte and Renault planned to steal the Harrington jet? The newspaper didn't say."

Ray leaned back in his chair, steepled his fingers, and looked smug. "Elementary, my dear Fraser," he said, in a very bad English accent. "We deduced it."

Fraser's eyebrows nearly climbed to his hairline. Ray grinned and proceeded to fill him in on the action since he and Renault left the ballroom together, a lifetime ago. Meg was content to sip tea, putting in the occasional detail.

Turnbull stuck his head in the door. "Ottawa on line 1, ma'am," he said to Meg. She reached for the phone on the small table at her elbow and pressed a button. "Margaret Thatcher speaking," she said, briskly. "Yes, sir! Thank you, sir." It went on in that vein. Ray tuned her out and reached for another cookie.

"You want some dry toast, or broth, or something, Benny?"

He shook his head, leaning closer. "Ray," he said, in a low voice. "Can you drive me home?"

Ray gave him an incredulous look. "Forget about it, Benny. You're stuck here for the duration." As he started to protest, he added, exasperated, "Are you nuts? That mob outside would eat you alive! They probably have your apartment staked out, too. My house is surrounded."

"Oh." He sat back, feeling trapped. The clock on the mantle chimed the hour. "What day is it, Ray?"

He blinked. "It's Sunday."

"Evening?"

"Yeah, sleepyhead. You've slept all day." At his look of dismay, Ray explained, "You passed out at the airfield, remember?" Fraser shook his head. "Remember the ambulance ride? Or the hospital?" He shook his head twice more. "Yeah, I didn't think so. The doctor said you were really out of it," he mumbled around a mouthful of cookie. "After he heard what Renault did to you, he gave you a shot in the other arm. He thought you'd stay asleep till tomorrow morning. He'll be back then to check on you." He washed the cookie down with a swig of coffee. "Are you really OK, Benny?"

He nodded. "Sore muscles. Bit of a headache."

Ray rolled his eyes. Benton Fraser, master of understatement. "You have to tell the doctor everything. If you don't, Benny ... I swear, I'll have you back at the hospital so fast, your head will spin. Reporters be damned."

Fraser kept to himself that his head was already spinning. "Really, Ray. I'm fi – "

"Promise me," he insisted.

He looked down and away, hiding the flush that crept across his features. "I -I promise." That seemed to satisfy Ray. Fraser brought the teacup to his lips and sipped. He plucked at the fabric of his shirt absently, glancing at Meg.

After he did this a few times, Ray noticed. "Something bothering you, Benny?"

He lowered his voice even further. "Did you ... uh ... do this?" hs asked, fingering the fabric. "I mean, I don't know how I got in these clothes ..."

"Not me, Benny," he said. "I've been working the case. Haven't seen you since the ambulance took you away." He yawned hugely. "'Scuse me." He jerked his head toward Thatcher. "It was probably her."

At Fraser's horrified expression, he stopped teasing. "It must have been Turnbull or the doc," he assured him.

"You're sure?" he asked, hopefully.

Ray couldn't resist one last zinger. "Nah, I'm just guessing." He looked at the wolf. "Hey, who stripped him, Dief? Yip once for Turnbull, and twice for the Inspector."

But, he just grinned at them and wouldn't answer. Ray ran a finger alongside his nose. Dief returned the gesture.

"Ingrate," Fraser muttered.

With a final "yes, sir," Thatcher hung up the phone. She looked stunned.

"Sir? Are you alright?"

"Th-that ..." She swallowed and tried again. "That was the Prime Minister."

Ray whistled. "That's like a big deal, right?"

"A very big deal, Ray," Fraser said, equally in awe.

"He said ..." Meg paused. "He said, 'Well done, Inspector Thatcher.'" She hugged herself. "He called me 'Inspector Thatcher.'" She smiled. "The Prime Minister knows my name."

"What about Fraser?" Ray asked, impatiently. "Does he know his name, too?"

"Ray," Fraser began.

"Inspector!" Ray snapped his fingers in her face. "Hey, Inspector!"

"Wh-what?" She looked blank. He jerked his thumb at Fraser. "Oh, yes. Sorry. He said, 'Constable Fraser is a credit to his country, too.'" She paused. "Too? That means ... he thinks I'm a credit!"

Ray smiled at her starstruck expression. It matched Benny's. He had forgotten all about who stripped him naked and scrubbed him like a baby.

He asked her, "Anybody seen the lovebirds?"

"No," she said, smiling dreamily. She was still on Cloud Nine.

Fraser looked accusingly at Diefenbaker. No matter how much he chastised him, the wolf was not good with birds. He considered them a tasty snack. If lovebirds had disappeared, it was likely that he was the culprit. But, Dief looked innocently back from his place on the carpet.

There was a knock at the open door of the library. Fraser looked up to see Ilsa Lund and Victor Laszlo standing there, arm in arm.

"May we come in?" she asked.

"Of course!" Meg exclaimed.

Fraser stared at Ilsa. She had traded her ball gown for slacks and a sweater, her heels for loafers ... no jewelry ... hair brushed back from her scrubbed face. He had thought Ilsa Lund a beautiful woman when he had discovered her weeping in the windowseat. Now, she was incandescent ... as if she was lit from within.

"Close your mouth, Fraser," Meg said, sourly. "You look like a codfish."

His jaw snapped shut. He heard Ray's do the same.

Ray got up and fetched more chairs. He held Ilsa's for her. She reached up and laid her hand on his. "Thank you, Ray," she said, warmly.

He hastily withdrew his hand, glancing guiltily at her husband. "Uh ... you're welcome."

She frowned, dropping her hands to her lap.

"Ilsa, he is looking at you in a way that is making me extremely jealous."

Ray whirled. "No! It's just – " he began, only to see Victor Laszlo bending over to rub Dief's belly. The wolf was lying on his back, gazing adoringly at his wife. At Ray's outburst, Laszlo looked up at him with a quizzical expression.

He hesitated, then extended his hand. "Ray Vecchio, Mr. Laszlo. We ... uh ... haven't been properly introduced ... I saw you across the crowded tarmac ..."

The diplomat took his hand. "It was some enchanted evening, was it not?"

Ray snorted. "That's one way of putting it, sir."

"Young man, you need no introduction," he said, warmly. "Ilsa has told me all about you."

Ray swallowed. "All?" he repeated.

"Yes, Ray," Ilsa confirmed. "I told Victor everything."

Victor looked at him for a long moment, then said, "Thank you, Ray," He released his hand.

"Uh ... no problem, sir."

"Call me Victor."

"Victor," Ray repeated, and resumed his seat.

Fraser rubbed his throbbing temples. "I thought ... the paper said ... you were in Mykonos," he stammered.

"Benton, you know you can't believe everything you read in the newspaper," Ilsa said, in a mock-stern voice.

He looked at Meg. "But ... you told Mr. Thune – "

"The truth," she finished for him. "I said Walter Harrington arranged for Victor Laszlo to recover at an undisclosed location." She said, haughtily. "I am not responsible for the wild speculation of the mass media, Constable."

"No, sir. I mean, yes, sir."

Ilsa reached across the table and took his hand. "You were indisposed, Benton." Her clear blue eyes locked with his. "We couldn't leave without saying goodbye."

He stared at her, unable to look away from those remarkable eyes. She released his hand and accepted a cup of tea from Meg. He looked up to see everyone staring at him.

Victor rescued him. "You look much better, Ben."

Fraser cleared his throat. "You too, sir."

Victor had showered and shaved. His hair was still long, but it was clean and neatly combed. He wore the jeans and flannel shirt that Fraser kept in the gym bag with the sweats. The clothes hung on Victor's thin frame. While the effects of his ordeal could not be eradicated overnight, he looked years younger. Closer to his true age of forty-seven, if the newspaper was accurate in that detail.

"I thought we had settled that 'sir' business," he said, in mild rebuke.

"We did ... Victor."

He fingered his shirt. "Thank you for the loan, Ben."

"You, too, Meg," Ilsa added.

Meg and Fraser chorused "You're welcome." She added, "Did you sleep well?"

"The Queen's bed is the most comfortable bed I have ever been in," Victor said. Fraser noticed that he hadn't actually answered her question. While his tone was light, the diplomat's eyes held a haunted expression.

Turnbull stepped into the room. "The sandwiches, ma'am?"

"Yes, Constable," Meg affirmed.

"Back in a jif."

Ray perked up at that. It had been a long time since the sumptuous spread at the Waldorf. Since then, all he'd had was a couple of stale donuts he found on Gardino's desk, dunked in cold coffee to soften them up, and Turnbull's cookies. His stomach growled loudly.

"Dief!" he admonished. The wolf looked up resentfully, before resettling at Ilsa's feet.

The conversation stayed away from the dramatic events of the last evening. But, after those intense experiences, returning to the mundane took on a surreal quality for each of them. There were awkward pauses. Meg's mind was still on her phone call. Fraser, clearly not at his best, had exhausted his repertoire of small talk at the ball and was mostly silent. Ray felt awkward sitting next to Ilsa's husband. It was silly. He hadn't done anything to feel guilty about, but that didn't stop him from feeling like he had. Victor, so recently back from the dead, was not exactly up on current events. He looked blank at Ray's "How 'bout those Bulls?" salvo.

Ilsa, bless her, did her best, carrying the conversational ball mostly by herself. When she admired the decor in the library, Meg sat up straighter. The redecorating had been her pet project. Ray's ears pricked up when Victor asked Meg if the ugly painting over the fireplace was an asteroid. When she confirmed that it was, Ray blinked. Aha! That gave new meaning to the riotous splotches of red, black and green paint. But, as she, Ilsa and Victor enthused over it, it became apparent that Asteroid was the artist's name, not the title.

He peered at the painting, trying without success to see the formal narrative structure collapsing into free-flowing image construction that unfolded in a synergy of visual motifs. David Something-that-sounded-like-asteroid was apparently a genius. Ray didn't want to reveal his ignorance by asking them to spell the name. He frowned, feeling like an uncultured bumpkin.

Fortunately, Turnbull _was _back in a jif, bearing a silver tray. He set the sideboard, usually covered with Canadian periodicals, with plates, cutlery and napkins. A bowl of fresh fruit completed the tableau. Turnbull set a platter in the cleared space with a bit of a flourish.

Ray rose to check out the spread, nearly tripping over Dief who had beaten him there. The platter was piled high with sandwiches. Dainty little things with the crusts cut off. There were three kinds of bread, and six different fillings, including the homemade pate Turnbull had included in the picnic basket on Friday. Christ, was that just two days ago?

He put his hands on his hips. "What? No peanut butter and jelly?"

"I'm sorry, Detective," Turnbull said, abashed. "I had to make do with what was on hand. I can't get to the market with that ... that ... " He stopped. "Those people out there," he finished, politely.

"I'm kidding!" Ray said, clapping a hand on his shoulder. "This is great!" His stomach rumbled again, emphasizing his point.

"Thank you, sir!" he said, beaming. "Oh," he said, with an apologetic glance at Fraser. He reached into the pocket of his red tunic and withdrew several little packets of saltines. He arranged them artistically on a plate and left the room. He returned with fresh coffee and tea and an assortment of soft drinks. When he was finished, Meg invited everyone to partake. There was a flurry of activity as Victor served Meg, Ilsa took care of Dief, and Ray fetched Fraser crackers and Canada Dry. Then, they filled their own plates and sat.

Victor looked dazedly at the plate on his lap. It had been a long time since he had seen this much food. He picked up a red, ripe apple. "I thought I would never taste one of these again," he said, softly. He took a bite, closed his eyes and emitted a sound of pure pleasure.

"Hey, get a room," Ray muttered, without thinking. Heads swivelled his way. He froze, his sandwich poised in front of his face. "Oh, sorry," he said, flustered. "My bad."

Victor stared at him. Then, his lips quirked, and he burst out laughing. It was infectious. Ilsa joined in, then Meg. Even Fraser, though his sore ribs cut his hilarity short. When an alarmed Turnbull dashed into the room, Ray lost it too.

At last, they wound down. Victor pressed a gaily colored napkin to his streaming eyes. "I th-think I n-needed that." He chortled a few more times, then resumed his meal. But at the crisp snap of his teeth biting into the fruit, Ilsa started giggling, setting them off again.

The atmosphere was much more relaxed as they finished their meal. Fraser was pleased that the crackers and ginger ale stayed where he put them. Though still aching, his head had stopped spinning and the queasiness had abated, somewhat.

Ilsa adjusted the ottoman under Meg's foot. "You have been looking quite pleased with yourself this evening, Meg. Has something happened?"

"The Prime Minister called me!" she said, proudly.

"How is Jean?" Victor asked.

Meg blinked at him, all the wind taken out of her sails. "I -I don't know. I didn't think to ask." She looked stricken. "I should have asked, shouldn't I?! He must think me terribly rude – "

"I'm sure he doesn't," Ilsa said, with a sharp glance at her husband. "Tell us what he said!"

Meg related the phone call, word for word.

"That's wonderful, Meg!" Victor said, somewhat chastened.

"What did your parents say when you told them?" Ilsa asked.

Her hand flew to her mouth. "Oh my God! I forgot to call them!" She reached for the crutch. "Excuse me." She stumped to the hall, shouting for Turnbull to help her to her office.

Ray looked after her, amused. So, the Dragon Lady had a mom and dad. It made her seem actually human.

Ilsa said, "Will you help me clear, Ray? It would seem that Constable Turnbull has his hands full."

"Sure," he said. They gathered the empty dishes and uneaten food and left the room. Dief trotted after them, hoping to score some tidbits.

Fraser and Victor faced each other across the coffee table. It was the first time they had been alone since the events in the Gulfstream. The silence stretched.

At last, Victor broke it. "This is absurd."

Fraser blinked. "What?"

"This ... " He gestured vaguely with his hands. "... quiet between us." He scratched his chin. "I have a reputation for being garrulous, you know."

"Yes, I've heard that." After another long pause, he added, "I don't." Fraser tugged his ear. "Although, I am told my Inuit stories are rather long-winded."

"Well, perhaps, one of those, then." Victor looked expectant.

But, Fraser was blank. "I'm sorry. Nothing comes to mind."

Victor snorted. "Never mind, Ben." He ran a hand across his face. "It's just that I feel so ... out of joint." He made a grand gesture encompassing himself, Fraser, the room, the Consulate. "As if ... none of this is real and I will wake up any moment and find myself still in a cellar."

Fraser nodded in sympathy. "After what you've been through, it will take some time to readjust to normality."

"Normality," he echoed, rubbing his jaw. He made a face. "It feels odd ... without the beard."

Fraser shifted painfully, his muscles protesting that he had been too long out of the cot. "Victor, may I ask you a question?"

"Of course."

"_Why_ are you here? At the Consulate, I mean?" He added, hastily, "Mr. Harrington would have arranged for your stay anywhere in the city ... anywhere in the world, for that matter. Why stay here, with all those reporters outside?"

"The reporters weren't here when we arrived, Ben."

"But, why come to the Consulate in the first place?"

Victor gave him a patient look. "You really don't know?"

Fraser shook his head.

"It's as Ilsa said. We couldn't leave without saying goodbye ... and thanking you," he said, gently. "And this was where you were."

That flustered Fraser. "But, that's not necessary," he blurted. "I only did my duty."

"Duty?" Victor scoffed. "Come on, Ben! You saved my life!"

"You saved mine, sir," he pointed out. "When Renault was tasering me. And later, when you got me on my feet ..."

"Yes, alright," he acknowledged. "But, this isn't a competition. We can agree that we helped each other." He paused. "But, what you did, Ben. What you promised Louis ... the sacrifice you were willing to make ... "

Fraser flushed and looked away.

Victor ran a hand through his hair. "I am making you uncomfortable. I don't mean to." He paused in thought. "It's not something that we men talk about, is it? What Louis would have done to you ..." He trailed off.

"You're right." Fraser's voice was low, lower than low. "It's not something we talk about." He desperately wanted to escape this conversation. He needed to be alone, to absorb all that had happened. But he knew he couldn't count on his legs. And, where could he go anyway? He was trapped. In this chair. In this room. In this building. With ... with people. His heart beat faster, and he could feel sweat breaking out on his upper lip.

"Don't you think it's better not to keep it in?" Victor prompted.

"No." His lips pressed into a thin line. "I don't." His heart was hammering in his chest now.

Victor saw his distress and backed off. "OK, Ben." he soothed. "We don't have to talk about it. Not if you don't want to." He drew a deep breath. "What I wanted to say is that ... I haven't told anyone. Not even Ilsa. The police know that Louis killed Miguel, stunned me and took you hostage. They think it was an act of mercy on Louis' part...to leave me alive. I didn't tell them– "

"– that it was a contract." Fraser's mouth twisted, as if he had tasted something bitter. "A deal with the devil."

"Not a devil. A man," Victor said, gently. "A man with a sick mind."

Fraser's head shot up. "No!" He spoke through gritted teeth. "He was a monster."

"Ben ..."

"A monster!" he repeated. His tenuous control broke. The floodgates opened and the words he had tried to hold back came tumbling out. "He murdered Marta and Christina and Strasser and Karim ... he nearly killed Meg ... and he reveled in it! I don't understand! How could he do those ... terrible things ... and then save me? Why? Why me?"

To his horror, Fraser realized he was close to tears. He bit his lip, forcing his wildly fluctuating emotions to heel by sheer force of will. When he spoke again, his voice was once more under a semblance of control. "You knew him. Please, Victor. Tell me why he did that."

Victor reacted as if Fraser had struck him. "How can you ask me that?! I didn't know him at all! Any of them!" He scrubbed his face with his hand. "I trusted Miguel, Emil, Louis ... even, Karim ... I was betrayed by people I loved, people I thought I knew." He choked back his own tears. "Do you know what that feels like?"

"Yes," Fraser said, remembering exactly what that felt like. He reached out impulsively and gripped the older man's bony shoulder. The muscles there quivered with tension. Just like his own.

Victor looked up, his eyes brimming. "I'll never forgive myself for the deaths of those women, for Meg, for the ordeal they put you through ..." His voice broke. "If only I had opened my eyes ... none of this would have – "

Fraser gave him a little shake. "It's not your fault, Victor. You were ... blindsided."

He stilled. For the first time, he actually understood what Ray tried to tell him in a dreary hospital room all those months ago. And by giving Ray's words now to Victor, paradoxically, he found some small measure of comfort for himself. He said, softly, "You have to find a way to forgive yourself."

"How?" Victor asked, bleakly.

Fraser's voice was rueful. "When I figure that out, I'll let you know."

Victor snorted a little laugh. He reached up to cover Fraser's hand with his own.

"I do not know why Louis saved you," he murmured. "Perhaps, a moment of ... of grace ... at the end." He shook his head. "We'll never know. All that matters, Ben ... is that he did."

Fraser took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He sat back in his chair, feeling his heart gradually slow to its normal rhythm. "That's what Ray said," he murmured.

"Your partner?" Victor asked, tentatively. "He is a good man?"

"The best," he said, firmly.

He nodded, thoughtfully. "Ilsa thinks so, too. But, I am not sure anymore ..."

"But, he is!" Fraser frowned. "Did Mrs. Harrington mention the Chippewa Room? Because I can assure you that Ray hasn't ... " He rubbed his eyebrow with his thumb. "I mean, he and Ilsa ... uh ... didn't actually ... er ... "

"I haven't seen Tuppy," Victor said. "Why? What happened in the Chippewa Room?"

Fraser opened his mouth, then shut it with a snap. "Nothing," he said, lamely.

Victor gave him a quizzical look, but let it go. "I didn't mean to denigrate your friend. Ray appears to be an honorable man. A decent man, in the best sense of the word."

"He is," Fraser repeated. "Without a doubt."

"But, it's not _him _that I doubt, Ben! It's _me_!" He stopped, and took a shaky breath. "I have always believed in people. That inside, they were basically good at heart. If I lose that ... faith ... how can I go on with my work?"

But, Fraser knew the answer to that one. "Ilsa," he said, simply.

Victor looked at him.

"She's a part of you, a part of your work. The thing that keeps you going," Fraser assured him. "She'll help you find your way."

Victor bowed his head, overcome and speechless.

Fraser said it for him. "You're a lucky man, Victor Laszlo."

"I am," he said, huskily. He cleared his throat. "I am in love with Ilsa Lund." He added, not without a drop of humor, "I'm not the only one."

Fraser started. "Oh, no. I'm not – " That was true. He wasn't in love with Ilsa. But, if he could ever let go of Victoria ... He glanced longingly at the ottoman and wondered if that was even possible.

"I know you're not, Ben," Victor reassured him. "But, from the first time I saw them together, I knew there was something between Ray and Ilsa." He shrugged. "Since no one is to blame, I demand no explanations." His smile was self-deprecating. "I may be blind. But, I am not _that_ blind. Your partner is in love with my wife."

"B-but, they met only yesterday –" Fraser spluttered, defensive on his friend's behalf.

"Oh, Ben," he said, as if speaking to a child. "Don't you know that it only takes a moment?"

"Or, a day, and a night, and a day," he murmured.

"What?"

"Nothing." Fraser took a breath. "Ilsa loves you, Victor. You can't ... you don't doubt that?"

"No, I don't," he acknowledged. He glanced at the open door of the library. A look of sympathy stole over his thin face. "It's your friend I feel for."

At that, Fraser knew Victor Laszlo was going to be just fine. He followed his gaze. But, he too felt for his friend ...

In the kitchen, Ilsa set the heavy tray on the counter next to the sink, then turned on the faucet. Ray set his own burden on the worktable. He picked up a brightly flowered apron from the back of a chair, and handed it to her without comment.

They worked without speaking. Ray packed the uneaten sandwiches in a container, tossing a couple to Dief under the table, and found room in the fridge. Meanwhile, Ilsa scraped the dirty dishes. Then, she filled the sink with hot, soapy water. He picked up a dish towel.

Ilsa washed, Ray dried. It was the most mundane of activities, one he did almost every night, usually with his sister's kids underfoot. Now, it seemed to him fraught with cosmic significance. Like they were in a time warp, cloistered in this intimate space, the outside world ceasing to exist as long as there were dishes to wash and dry. He knew it was the last time he would ever be alone with Ilsa Lund, and that knowledge hung heavily on him, robbing him of words. Not even a wisecrack about Turnbull's taste in aprons came to mind.

With each dish and utensil she handed him, the silence between them grew like a living thing. Finally, the last dish was stacked, clean and dry, on the counter. She pulled the plug. The water gurgled down the drain. She gripped the edge of the sink with both hands.

Ray broke the silence. "When do you leave?"

She didn't look at him. "Soon. When Constable Turnbull told us Benton was awake, we called Walter." She bowed her head. "He's making the arrangements now."

"Do you know where you'll go?"

She shook her head. "Out of the country. Somewhere secluded."

"How long will you be gone?"

She shrugged one shoulder. "I don't know, Ray." She watched the last of the suds circle the drain. "Victor will need time ... quiet." She took a breath. "He barely slept, despite his exhaustion. Nightmares, thinking he was still a prisoner."

"It takes time. He'll be OK."

"Will you?" Her voice was soft, barely audible.

"Sure," he said, unconvincingly. "Why wouldn't I be?"

She untied the apron and neatly folded it over the chair. At last, she faced him. "Ray ..." She brushed her hair from her eyes. "This is the last time we ..." She trailed off. "There is so much I want to say ... but the words just won't come." She paused. "Except 'thank you,' and that seems poor and inadequate."

"You don't have to say anything," he said, huskily.

"Yes, I do." She took a breath. "You made me _feel_, Ray ... You made me feel something I never thought I would feel again." She looked up at him, her eyes brimming. "Then, you gave me back my husband."

Ray's heart was too full to answer.

She stepped into his arms. He held her close. Time stopped in the tiny kitchen. Ray reveled in her warmth, the scent of her hair, the softness of her cheek against his. He wanted to do Benny's Zen thing, to seal this in memory forever, but he didn't know how.

"Kiss me, Ray," she whispered. "Kiss me for the last time."

He touched his lips to hers, genuinely intending to make it a chaste, brotherly peck. Her husband was in the next room, after all. But at the feel of her mouth under his, her body melting against him, any honorable intentions deserted him. This was not the first time he had felt her lips on his. They had kissed twice before. First, in the Chippewa Room, when she had smeared him with lipstick to fool Tuppy Harrington into thinking they were lovers. The second time, he had planted one on her when he discovered Benny wasn't dead after all. That hardly counted. Hell, he'd have kissed Dief at that moment. But, this time ...

Sometimes, a kiss was just a kiss. And sometimes, it was much more ...

He kissed her for the last time with all his heart and soul, with everything he had, with all the passion they might have shared, and all the regret of knowing they were never meant to be. When he released her at last, they were both trembling. She ducked her head, her face flushing the prettiest shade of pink. He lifted her chin in his hand until her beautiful blue eyes met his.

"Here's looking at you, kid," he said, tenderly.

At the sound of the siren outside, they broke apart. Ray looked down at his feet, only to see Diefenbaker grin at him, then swipe a paw across his nose.


	30. Chapter 30

**CHAPTER THIRTY**

Turnbull and Ray met the ambulance team at the door. Two burly guys with a stretcher fought their way through the media horde. Ray stepped out, pushing a particularly aggressive cameraman out of their way. "Let them through! It's an emergency!" He whirled at a hand gripping his arm to come face to face with an intense-looking woman with dark hair.

"Is it Fraser?" MacKenzie King asked, anxiously.

"Yeah," Ray muttered. "Can you do something with these vultures?"

She nodded, "I'll try." She released his arm. "Is he going to be OK?"

"I hope so," he said quickly, avoiding her eyes. He followed the stretcher inside, then helped Turnbull push the heavy door closed on the mob. They leaned back against it, breathless.

"It's showtime!" Ray said, grinning. The young officer gave him a nervous smile.

MacKenzie King blew on her fingers to warm them, then jotted hurriedly in her notebook. In the fifteen minutes since the ambulance had pulled up, she had managed to worm her way to the front of the mob holding the Canadian Consulate under siege. There were reporters at the front door, the back door, and at each window at ground level. One even perched on a streetlight just like a ... a ... vulture. Vecchio had pegged that one right. She pressed her ear against the heavy wood door of the Consulate. Somebody jostled her. She stuck a finger in her other ear and muttered to herself, "Vultures! Vultures everywhere!"

She heard noises inside the Consulate. "QUIET!" she yelled. "QUIET!" She heard the click of the doorlatch and bellowed, "QUIET! THEY"RE COMING OUT!"

Sure enough, the door opened. Vecchio stepped out, holding his hands up. "PLEASE!" he yelled. "MAKE WAY! PLEASE!"

"MOVE IT!" MacKenzie bawled. "IT'S THE MOUNTIE!"

At that, to Ray's amazement, the crowd of reporters and cameramen parted respectfully. The EMTs carried the stretcher carefully down the front stoop, being careful not to jostle the man strapped to it. MacKenzie saw Fraser's big white dog trotting along behind them, looking worried.

She gasped when she saw the patient. Fraser's head and face were bound with bandages, leaving only his nose and mouth exposed. He lay there limply, a blanket covering him to his chest. Her heart skipped a beat. She had no idea he had been so badly hurt! She stared, open-mouthed, watching the gurney's progress, then dashed down the steps after it. Though a hush had descended on the mob, strobes and flashbulbs were lighting up the darkness. She caught up to the stretcher as Vecchio was opening the ambulance bay doors.

"Bento?" she said softly into a bandaged ear. His head moved slightly towards her. She took his hand in hers, relieved to find that it was warm. She felt his pulse racing in his wrist. "Hang in there, Bento," she whispered, before laying his hand gently on his chest.

Vecchio gave her a strange look, then leaned close. "He'll be OK," he told her. Then, the stretcher was loaded. One of the EMTs climbed in the back with the dog. The driver got behind the wheel as Vecchio slammed the doors shut. The siren wailed again, and the ambulance proceeded slowly through the mob of reporters, cameras and news vans. All at once, as if someone had fired a starter gun, there was a mad scramble as every tech, cameraman and reporter, including MacKenzie, dashed to their vehicles.

Ray stood there watching the wacky races. In a few minutes, he was alone. He walked up the stoop and knocked three times. Thatcher, leaning on her crutch, let him in. She latched the door behind him. They exchanged an amused glance and returned to the library.

Fraser looked up from his chair as they entered the room.

"They bought it," Ray said, grinning. "Hook, line and sinker. Even your girlfriend, MacKenzie King."

He flushed. "Miss King is not my girlfriend, Ray. I barely know her."

"You should have seen her holding your hand, Benny." He put a palm to his chest, and fluttered his eyelashes. "Nearly broke my heart."

"It wasn't _my_ hand, Ray," he spluttered. Before he could say more, there was a movement behind Ray and Meg. Victor and Ilsa were there, wearing the trenchcoats and fedoras that the fake EMTs had brought in under the blankets.

"Constable Turnbull is away?" Victor asked.

"Yes," Meg answered. "And the reporters, too."

"The coast is clear," Ray said. "But, you'd better go out the back." He added, "I heard the garbage truck turn into the street. It should be in position."

"Ah, the glamorous life of international diplomacy," Victor quipped.

Ilsa and Meg embraced. When Fraser tried to rise from his chair, they turned as one.

"Stop that!" Meg barked.

"Don't you dare!" Ilsa cried.

He sank back, intimidated by the two-pronged assault. Ilsa bent and kissed his cheek. "I am glad I was in that windowseat," she whispered in his ear.

"So am I."

"Goodbye, Benton." She smoothed the hair from his forehead. "Be well."

He stared into her lovely blue eyes, enthralled once more. "Goodbye, Ilsa."

Victor took Meg's hand and bowed over it in a very Continental manner. He nodded to Fraser. "I hope we meet again, Ben," he said, fondly. "I would like to hear one of your Inuit stories someday."

"Be careful what you wish for," Ray muttered.

"Goodbye, Victor. Godspeed," Fraser said, ignoring his partner's _sotto voce _comment.

Victor smiled. "Are you ready, Ilsa?"

"Yes, I'm ready." She took his arm.

"We'd better hurry," Ray urged.

They followed him through the kitchen and down a short flight of stairs to the back door. Ray peeked through the curtains, then opened the door carefully. He poked his head outside. "All clear," he said, beckoning Ilsa and Victor to follow him.

Fog was starting to drift in from the Lake, shrouding the garbage truck that waited at the end of the alley. Ray returned the driver's salute, recognizing him as another of Harrington's security guys. Ray hurried to the passenger side and opened the door. He gave Ilsa a hand stepping up into the cab. Their eyes met for the last time. She squeezed his hand. "God bless you, Ray," she said, softly and disappeared inside.

Victor Laszlo reached up to hoist himself in, then turned back.

"Thank you for not letting me die," he said, voice pitched too low for Ilsa to hear. "If you had, I think you would have regretted it. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but soon, and for the rest of your life." He added, sadly, "As Emil did."

Ray stared at him. "The thought never occurred to me," he blurted.

"I know, Ray." He extended his hand. After the slightest of hesitations, Ray shook it. "With men like you and Ben to fight for what is right, I know our side will win someday."

"I'm ... uh ... honored ... to be on your side, sir," Ray stammered, meaning it, though he could still feel Ilsa's lips on his. He reminded himself that confession started at 8:00 am at St. Michael's.

Victor climbed into the cab. He closed the door, then waved a jaunty goodbye as the truck pulled out. Ray watched the vehicle until it disappeared into the fog. He stood on the sidewalk for a long time, until he was shivering with the cold. He reentered the Consulate, locked the back door and tromped up to the kitchen. He was surprised to see Thatcher at the kitchen table with a glass of milk.

"Cold out there," he said, huskily, swiping at his eyes and nose.

"They're gone?" Meg asked.

"Yeah." He put his hands in his pocket and leaned against the counter. "Helluva couple of days."

"Indeed." She finished her milk and set the glass in the sink.

She followed him back to the library. Fraser, head sagging on his chest, was asleep in the chair. At the sound of Meg's crutch stumping on the hardwood floor, he looked up, blearily.

"C'mon, Benny. Past your bedtime," Ray said, holding out his hands. Fraser took them, for once without demur. He limped to the cot. Ray helped him climb in. When he was settled, he peered up at Ray's face.

"Are you OK, Ray?"

"I'm fine," he lied, with a glance over his shoulder at Thatcher.

Fraser looked askance, but when he opened his mouth to speak, he yawned so hugely his jaws actually creaked. "'Scuse me, Ray."

"Goodnight, Constable," Meg called from the library door.

"Goodnight, sir." He closed his eyes and murmured. "G'night, Ray."

"Good night, John-Boy," he said, patting his shoulder. And with that, Benny was gone. The poor guy was really wiped. Well, the doctor would be back in the morning. Ray would call then to see how he was doing.

He spread the blanket over his sleeping partner and stood, stretching his weary back. "OK, I'm going home."

Meg stumped to the front door with him. She opened it a crack and peered out. The coast was still clear.

"You'll be OK here without Turnbull and Dief?" he asked.

"Yes."

"OK," he said, stifling his own yawn. "Call me if you need anything."

"Thank you, Detective. But, we'll be fine." As he stepped through the door, she said, softly, "You made Canada ... proud ... last night."

He turned, not sure if he heard her right, but she had already closed the door. He flipped up the collar of his coat and jammed his hands in his pockets. He climbed into the Riv and started the engine, completely unaware that he was humming the Canadian national anthem under his breath.

He pulled up in front of a neighbors' house, two doors down. Only one news van was parked in front of his place, and that was as dark as the house. He leaned his head back against the seat rest. It was quiet now, but soon enough the kids would be running around, Frannie and Maria would be fighting over the bathroom, and Ma ... well, one look at his face and she'd know something was different. She'd consider it her personal mission to find out what. With a sigh, he reached down and flipped a lever, tilting his seat back. He crossed his arms over his chest and closed his eyes. He was asleep in moments.

Inside the Consulate, Meg locked the door behind Vecchio. She looked up, daunted at the stairs that led to the Queen's bedroom, then about-faced and stumped back to the library as quietly as she could. She propped her ankle on the ottoman, turned on the reading lamp, and reached for her book. Sometime later, Fraser, moaning in the grip of a nightmare, woke her from her own restless doze. She pushed the ottoman close to the cot and sat, stroking his head, until he settled again.

Her hand trembled at the thought of how close she had come to losing this baffling, exasperating, extraordinary man. In the quiet gloom of the library, she pondered the imponderable – how could the killer who delighted in torturing Fraser sacrifice himself to save him? – until her head ached and she gave it up. She wearily concluded that it wasn't important. What was important was that he was alive. She was marveling at the softness of his hair when she noticed his eyes were open.

She froze, hand still on his head.

"Am I dreaming?" he murmured.

Meg remembered that the best defense was a good offense. "Do you think I would be doing this if you weren't?"

"N-no, sir."

"Well, then. There you have it," she said, crisply.

He smiled. It was a sweet, utterly unselfconscious smile. "Don't stop."

She hesitated, but she was hoisted on her own petard. She resumed her ministrations. He closed his eyes, sighing in contentment. After a few minutes, he was gone again, his chest rising and falling in regular rhythm. She grabbed the crutch and got to her feet, sliding the ottoman back in place in front of her chair. She switched off the light, tiptoed as well as she could, and closed the library door. When she finally made it to the Queen's bedroom, she collapsed on the bed. The clock on the nightstand read 3:30 am. She barely made it into her pajamas before sleep claimed her too.

The mantle clock chimed seven a moment before Turnbull and Diefenbaker's noisy return. Fraser's eyes flew open. He glanced at the empty chair and ottoman and sighed . Of course, it was a dream. Then, Dief was on the cot, licking his face. He smelled donuts on his breath, but let it go. Fraser hugged him tightly, a rare gesture between them. At Dief's look of surprise, he enunciated clearly, "Thank you kindly." The wolf grinned, then jumped down.

"Breakfast, sir?" Turnbull asked.

Fraser's stomach rumbled. "Yes. I think so." He started to rise.

"The Inspector said you're to stay in bed, sir. Until the doctor sees you."

"I can come to the kitchen – "

Turnbull looked anxiously over his shoulder. "Please, sir. I have my own orders. Breakfast in bed for you."

He subsided, not wanting to distress the young officer. "Thank you, Constable."

Dief followed Turnbull to the kitchen. Fraser heard the sound of the coffee grinder and sniffed appreciatively at the smell of freshly ground. He settled back on the cot, hands behind his head, feeling vaguely decadent. He was not used to being waited upon. But, orders were orders.

He stared at the ceiling. It seemed closer than it ought to be. So, did the walls, for that matter. He sighed deeply, closed his eyes, and tried to think of the Yukon until Turnbull returned with pancakes, eggs, bacon, and toast. And a little dish of pastel-colored pills.


	31. Chapter 31

**CHAPTER THIRTY ONE**

The stethoscope was cold against his skin, and Fraser flinched.

"Sorry about that, Constable," Dr. Truscott said, gruffly. "My bag was in the car." He rubbed the end of the instrument briskly between his hands, before pressing it to the patient's chest again. He thought wryly that the flinch was the first spontaneous response from his patient since the examination began. Oh, he was polite, but so reserved as to be nearly devoid of personality.

Fraser, chest bare, perched atop a kitchen stool that Turnbull had carried into the library. He shifted uncomfortably at the close contact as the doctor, a wiry man in his mid-sixties, listened carefully to his heart, then thumped his chest and palpated his abdomen.

"Good," the older man said, settling reading glasses on his nose. He jotted notes in a file on the coffee table, next to a tray with coffee things. His intense blue eyes peered over the rim of the glasses, taking in their surroundings.

"I like this room," he said, nodding in approval. "A nice change from the exam rooms at the hospital." He smiled. "Maybe I should do more housecalls." He took a sip from his cup. "Especially with coffee this good." He fired these conversational salvos in the hope of setting his patient at ease.

It didn't work. Fraser sat stiffly on the stool and waited patiently for the exam to continue.

Dr. Truscott considered himself somewhat adept at connecting with his patients, but this man was presenting a singular challenge. He was so self-contained that ... well, if he looked up the word in the dictionary, it should be illustrated with a picture of Benton Fraser, RCMP.

Of course, by all accounts, so should the words "brave" and "noble" and "true." Victor Laszlo had been effusive in his praise, urging the doctor to take good care of the young man. A genuine hero, he'd said. High praise, Truscott thought, considering the source. But, Laszlo hadn't mentioned the Mountie was as tight-lipped as a clam. The doctor sighed in frustration and plugged the ends of the stethoscope in his ears.

Fraser knew his reticence was disappointing the physician. But it took every bit of his focus to keep upright on the stool without listing, and he was all out of small talk. He wasn't about to drop his guard with the Chief of Staff of Loyola University Medical Center. The doctor's sharp eyes, despite the glasses, missed nothing. And, Fraser wasn't about to give him anything to find.

All he wanted was to be done. Done with being poked, prodded, stared at or fussed over. He yearned for his spartan apartment. To climb into his narrow bed, pull the covers over his head and shut out the world seemed like the nearest thing to heaven. But that was impossible. Mr. Mustafi had complained to Ray about the small contingent of reporters surrounding 221 West Racine. A similar cluster was encamped at the Vecchio home, as well as on the front stoop of the Consulate. He was still under siege, even though the prevailing opinion in the media was that Walter Harrington had stashed him in a private clinic somewhere out of state, possibly out of the country, all expenses paid.

The doctor stepped behind him.

"You know, Constable," he said, casually. "I had to do a little research last night. We're not usually presented with a case like yours." He pressed the stethoscope to his back and instructed Fraser to take a deep breath and hold it. "And out. Good."

"There isn't a lot of information about the effects of taser abuse on the human body," he continued. "The only studies I found addressed the regulatory requirements when the device was up for government approval. They concluded that a taser, used in accordance with the manufacturer's specifications, was perfectly safe."

Fraser knew this. Though he himself had never fired a taser – and sincerely doubted that he ever would – he made it a point to keep up with firearms and weapons specifications, especially those that related to law enforcement. He let the remarks pass without comment, taking refuge in obeying the instructions to inhale, hold it, then exhale as the doctor listened to his breath sounds.

Dr. Truscott touched his finger to the middle of his back. He said, softly, "I suppose it _is_ more humane than a bullet. The damage a bullet can do to the body is ... unspeakable." He trailed off, silently tracing the scar there over and over. Fraser tensed, but the doctor didn't ask how he'd come by it. After a moment, he continued with his examination.

As he shone a penlight in Fraser's eyes, he circled back to his research. "However, I read that there is nothing to prevent the person wielding the taser from violating the manufacturer's specs. Apparently, one can keep depressing the trigger thereby sustaining the burst for more than the recommended 5 seconds." He held Fraser's chin firmly and lifted each eyelid in turn. "Do you know if that was done to you?"

"I couldn't say, sir. It ... seemed longer, but I could be mistaken. My time sense was somewhat ... disrupted." Fraser knew exactly how long each burst had been – an eternity – but he kept that to himself.

The doctor snorted without humor. "Disrupt, yes. That's a good word. The taser disrupts the normal function of the body by deliberately mimicking the electric pulses our neurons use. When the nerves are flooded by these pulses, normal signals get drowned out. Motor nerves deep in the muscles contract in a sustained, uncontrollable tetanus. Like this." He twisted his face in an ugly rictus, stiffening his body, hands held out like claws. The transformation was sudden and grotesque. Fraser recoiled, nearly falling off the stool.

"Hmm," the doctor said, before relaxing his posture and writing a note. He attached a cuff to Fraser's arm and took his blood pressure. "A little elevated, Constable." He jotted more notes.

Fraser tilted his head, trying without success, to read the doctor's scrawl upside down. He straightened on the stool, determined to get through this exam without further lapses.

The physician placed his hands on either side of his neck and felt the glands under his jaw. He talked as he probed.

"Of course, one hit with the device is enough to subdue any suspect," he said, as casually as if he was talking about the weather. "Once the person is incapacitated, repeated application is ... pointless." He felt the pulse jump sharply under his fingers. Gotcha! he thought, though not unkindly. He peered at Fraser over the rim of his glasses. "From a law enforcement point of view, I meant."

He nodded, warily.

Dr. Truscott regretted the cheap tricks. But, they confirmed what he had suspected. The emotions were there. The patient was just very, very good at hiding them.

He stuck a scope in Fraser's ear and peered through it. "Mr. Laszlo told me you were stunned multiple times."

"Yes, sir."

The doctor straightened, looking expectant.

"Twelve times," he admitted.

"Twelve?"

"Yes."

"Twelve stuns with a taser must have been ... painful," he ventured.

"The last was administered while I was unconscious," Fraser replied. "I was unaware of it."

That wasn't an answer, but the doctor moved on. "You were bound?" he asked, gently touching one wrist.

Fraser looked down at the ligature marks. "Duct tape," he confirmed. He had similar bruising on his legs and ankles.

The doctor blew out a breath. "To be bound and helpless ... knowing that the stuns would keep coming ... that would have a drastic effect," he said, softly. "On anyone."

"It happened." Fraser shrugged one shoulder. "But, it's over."

The doctor touched his neck where the skin was shiny and red. "I brought a salve for those burns."

"Thank you."

Fraser watched as he wrapped a length of rubber around his upper arm.

"Of course, with a weapon designed to interfere with the body's electrical system, my first concern was the effect on your heart," the doctor said, swabbing the inside of his elbow with alcohol.

Fraser looked up sharply. His words rang a distant bell in memory. Something about ... pinecones? He frowned. That didn't make any sense. He tried to reel in the thought, but it vanished like a will-o'-the-wisp.

The doctor misinterpreted his reaction and quickly reassured him. "Don't worry, Constable. We ran an ECG and echo at the hospital. You have the heart of a lion." He drew a blood sample, and applied a bandage to the puncture. "I'll run a toxicology screen, but I think the drugs have probably cleared your system." He picked up the chart and jotted in it. "Any dizziness?"

"No."

"Double vision?"

"No."

"Headache?"

"Yes ... but it's better."

"How's your appetite?"

"Good." He had devoured the breakfast that Turnbull had prepared to the last crumb, much to Dief's disappointment. "Excellent, in fact."

"Pins and needles?"

"Not anymore."

"Pain?" At Fraser's hesitation, he asked, "Where does it hurt?" He smiled. "Or, should I ask where _doesn't_ it?"

That elicited the tiniest upward quirk of the patient's lips.

"Everywhere," he acknowledged.

The doctor grimaced in sympathy. "Places you didn't even know you had, right?"

"Yes, sir."

He shoved the glasses up on his forehead. "Fatigue will be an issue for a while. Don't push yourself. If you feel like taking a nap, do it."

"I will, sir," he said, unconvincingly.

The doctor sighed. "How did you sleep last night?"

"Fine."

"Dreams?"

There was a pause. "Everybody dreams."

"I meant nightmares, son."

"I don't remember," Fraser said, avoiding his eyes. His dreams, good and bad, were his own. He wasn't sharing them.

Dr. Truscott patted his arm. "You're not a robot, Constable. It's normal to have bad dreams after something like this. It's the brain's way of processing what happens to us." He jotted a note on his pad. "I can recommend a good man, if you want to talk –"

"That won't be necessary, sir," he said, firmly.

The doctor grunted, then found the pulse point in Fraser's wrist, being careful of the bruising there. He looked at his watch. "Any palpitations? Cold sweats? Feelings of anxiety or panic?"

Fraser heard the doorbell ring, followed by a commotion in the hall. The doctor turned, distracted, still holding his wrist.

"Who's in charge here?" a female voice warbled.

Another woman exclaimed, "Hey, I was here first! Wait your turn."

Dief yipped excitedly.

The second woman cooed, "Who's a pretty boy? Yes, you are! Oh, yes, you are!"

"Ladies," Turnbull interjected. "If you would just have a seat – "

"Oh my!" the warbling voice said. "What do they feed you men up North? You're all so yummy!" She sighed dramatically. "But, I don't have much time, I'm afraid."

The pulse beneath Dr. Truscott's fingers jumped. The patient's breathing had sped up. His face had taken on a light sheen of perspiration.

"Constable?" he asked, concerned.

"Where is he? Where is Benton?" The first woman demanded.

"Who are you?" the second one countered.

"I am Daphne Morehead Harper Harrington," she announced. "Not that it's any of your busin – "

"_You're_ Tuppy Harrington!" the other woman exclaimed. "You look so much older in person!"

"Mrs. Harrington, Miss Vecchio, if you would just have a seat in the – " Turnbull's voice was getting ragged.

"Vecchio?! Are you connected to that ... that ... detective at our ball, the one Ilsa was so chummy with – ?"

"That detective is my brother!" Frannie said, bristling. "And who the hell is Ilsa?"

The cacophony of voices, with Dief adding the occasional woof and yip, continued outside the door. Inside the library, Dr. Truscott and Fraser stared at each other with identical expressions of alarm.

The doctor recovered first. "Tuppy?! I thought she left the country! What's she doing here?"

As he stared at his patient's strained yet handsome face, the light bulb went off. He released his wrist. He didn't need to feel it to know that his pulse was elevated. A perfectly normal physiological response under the circumstances. He should know, his own heart was thudding in his chest.

"I can bar visitors, son," he said, kindly.

Fraser shot him a look of pure gratitude. To his surprise, Dr. Truscott found himself indebted to the she-beast outside the door for facilitating the first genuine connection between his patient and himself. Even if it was based on mutual terror.

Fraser shook his head, squaring his shoulders manfully. "No ... I ... uh ... need to ... That won't be necessary."

"You're sure?" He hastily packed his bag, glancing at the door from time to time. The clamor in the hall continued. "I could write a note – "

"No, sir. But, thank you kindly," he said, sincerely.

The doctor shouldered into his coat. "Your call, Constable." He straightened. "Keep up with the pills until they're gone. You're excused from duty for one week. Light duty for two weeks after that. I want you to rest." He buttoned his coat. "I'll call your commander later, and pop back to see you next Monday." He wound a long woolen scarf around his neck and pulled on a pair of gloves.

He peered over the rim of his glasses at his patient. "You should talk about what happened." His voice was gentle. "If you won't see a professional ... at least, share it with a friend."

Fraser looked up. "I - I'll try, sir," he said, softly.

He studied his face, then nodded. At the door of the library, he turned back. "One more bit of professional advice, son?"

He looked expectant. "Yes, sir?"

"Put that shirt on!"

Fraser looked down at his bare chest in surprise. He scrambled off the stool and grabbed the tee-shirt from the back of a leather armchair. He hastily pulled it over his head.

"Ready?" At his nod, the doctor opened the door and was nearly bowled over as Tuppy Harrington, Frannie Vecchio and Diefenbaker rushed past Turnbull, a blushing, ineffectual Horatius at the bridge.

"Tuppy! Take it easy on the boy!" Dr. Truscott called over his shoulder, before beating a hasty retreat. Turnbull looked torn, then scurried to escort the doctor out.

"Thank you, son," he muttered. He looked the tall, blond man in red serge up and down. "Run for your life," he warned, before hurrying down the stoop.

In the library, Fraser stood, holding on to the back of his chair with both hands. "Good morning, Mrs. Harrington, Francesca. Won't you sit down?"

Mrs. Harrington slid into the closest chair to him, beating out Frannie by a hairsbreadth. To be fair, the young woman was handicapped by a foil-covered tray she was holding and trying to keep away from Dief.

When both women were seated, Fraser sat down, rather heavily. "Deifenbaker! Dief!" He nudged the wolf with a toe until he looked at him, tongue lolling. "Go to our office," he said, slowly and distinctly.

Dief scowled and looked longingly at the tray in Francesca's lap, but he went.

"I'm sorry, Francesca," he said. "He's a bit excited to see you. And whatever you have there." He gestured at the tray.

"It's a lasagne, Benton," she said, proudly. "I made it for you."

Tuppy's head whirled. She looked suspiciously at the foil-covered pan like it was a bomb about to explode.

"Thank you." He sniffed. "It smells delicious."

Frannie preened. "Ray said it's your favorite."

He turned to the older woman. "Mrs. Harrington, I must confess I am surprised to see you. I thought you and Mr. Harrington had left the country – "

She cut him off. "We're leaving this afternoon. We were supposed to leave this morning, but, when he told me you were here ... I know it's a big secret and I didn't say a word to the reporters, but I just had to see you – "

"I'm glad that you came," he said, sincerely.

She looked up. While her expression didn't change, her body language did. She positively quivered with hopeful eagerness.

Fraser met her eyes. "I owe you an apology." He glanced down at his hands. "You see, at the ball, when Ilsa spilled wine on your dress, I ... I am afraid I behaved rather badly." He looked back up, shamefaced. "I was not a gentleman."

"Oh, pooh, Benton!" She waved a hand, dismissively. "No need to apologize for that."

"But, I do – " he insisted.

She said, airily, "Ilsa explained everything."

"Ilsa explained ...?"

"That it was all a ruse!" She frowned, or tried to. Her face was not capable of that expression. Or any expression, for that matter. "I didn't quite understand it all, and she said it _was_ rather hush-hush. But, Ilsa said ... because of _me_, you were able to infiltrate the kidnapers' circle, find Victor, and keep Louis and Miguel from stealing our jet! She said that would never have happened without you being a cad."

At Fraser's reaction, she amended, "I mean, _pretending _to be a cad, of course! That you had to convince Louis Renault – you know, I never trusted that man! – to take you to where they held Victor. And since _he_ was a cad, _you_ had to be a cad, so _he_ would think _you_ were a cad just like him. And, that without _me_, the whole thing would never have come off!" She paused. "Or something like that. Did I get it right?"

"Uh ..." He paused in thought. "Yes, essentially."

"So, it _was_ a performance? You aren't _really_ a cad?"

"No! I mean I would never – !"

She leaned back in her chair, triumphant. "I knew it all the time! The way you held me when we danced, I knew our feelings – !"

"Feelings?!" Frannie exclaimed. "What feelings?!"

Tuppy peered down her nose. "That's hardly your business, my dear." She slipped out of her coat, revealing a fabulous pantsuit of blue silk. Versace, Frannie thought. And those looked like real diamonds at her ears and throat. And around her wrist. And on her fingers. The older woman sat back in the chair with an air of feline satisfaction. She looked around the library with an assessing eye, before removing a compact from her purse and checking her lipstick.

Frannie took a good look at Fraser for the first time since entering the room. Black eye, starting to turn green around the edges, very pale face gleaming slightly with perspiration, his broad shoulders slumping ever so slightly. But, it was his expression that alarmed her more than his physical appearance. He looked just like a sweet little mouse caught in the paws of a giant cat, the kind that liked to play with its food.

She ran her eyes up and down the billionaire's wife sitting next to her. Who did she think she was, with her fancy clothes and her fancy hair and her fancy nails and her society ball and big airplane? Making eyes at _her _Mountie! After the minx had practically pounced on poor Turnbull out in the hall! She tightened her grip on the edges of her lasagne pan and started to tilt it sideways.

Fraser saw what she was doing and shook his head, sharply. Frannie halted in mid-toss. She set the tray down daintily on the coffee table. Then, she got up and crossed to Fraser's chair. She perched on the arm.

"You look tired, Benton," she said, solicitously, brushing the hair from his forehead. He looked nervous, but didn't pull away.

"I am," he blurted. "The doctor relieved me from duty for a week."

Mrs. Harrington looked up sharply over her mirror. "A whole week," she marveled. "I could postpone – "

Frannie leaned over and kissed him gently on the cheek. "I'll take the week off too ... honey."

"Honey?!" gasped Tuppy. "Benton, what's going on? Who is this ... person?"

He gulped. "Uh ... Mrs. Harrington, this is ... not what it looks like ..."

Frannie giggled. "It's_ exactly_ what it looks like, silly!" She winked conspiratorially at the older woman. "Mrs. Harrington is a woman. She understands. Don't you, Mrs. Harrington?"

"Understands what?" she asked, tentatively.

"Benton and I ..." She looked demurely down at her hands. "We have a thing." She squeezed Fraser's arm, digging her nails in a bit, right where Renault's needle had torn his skin. "Don't we, sweetie?"

"Y-yes ... a ... a ... thing," he stammered.

"Oh! Oh, my!" Tuppy cried. "I had no idea! Why didn't you say something, Benton?"

"Because it's complicated!" Frannie exclaimed. "I'm Italian, he's Canadian. He's a Mountie, I'm a cop's sister." She leaned forward, lowering her voice. "And not just any cop! His partner _and_ his best friend. Can you believe it?" She looked wide-eyed and innocent as she whispered, "We can't tell anybody." She paused. "Will you keep our secret, Mrs. Harrington? Please?"

Tuppy's eyes glittered with barely suppressed glee. "Of course I will! I am the soul of discretion where love is concerned." She shouldered back into her coat and rose imperiously. "Well, as I said, we leave in a few hours. I need to say goodbye to my friend Muffy, before I go." She made an attempt at a smile. It was alarming. "I am glad to see that you are well, Benton," she said, sincerely.

"Thank you, Mrs. Harrington. I wish you and Mr. Harrington bon voyage," he said, with equal sincerity.

"Goodbye," Frannie said, sweetly, looping her arm through his. She put a finger to her lips. "Remember, mum's the word. Don't tell anybody!"

"I won't! Goodbye, Benton. Goodbye, Miss ...uh ... Miss." She gathered her belongings and strode purposefully through the library door, calling, "Constable Turnbull! Constable Turnbull!"

She nearly bumped into Meg, who stood in the hall, balanced on one crutch. "Good morning, Mrs. Harrington! Did I hear you say that you have a plane to catch? Let me show you out ..."

"But Constable Turnbull – "

"Turnbull is on a very important mission, Mrs. Harrington. I'm afraid he won't return for several days ..."

Fraser let out the breath he was holding when he heard the front door open and close amid the frantic calls for comment from the reporters. He looked up to see Frannie looking down at him in fond amusement. He took her hand in his and squeezed it gently.

"Thank you kindly, Francesca." His gratitude was heartfelt.

"My pleasure, Benton."

"And, thank you for the lasagne. It _is _my favorite." He heard the stumping sound of the Inspector's crutch crossing the hall. He looked up at Frannie in panic, releasing her hand. She sighed deeply, but by the time Meg made it to the library door, Frannie was coming through, holding the lasagne in front of her.

"I'll just put this in the fridge," she said. "Then, I gotta get to work."

"Thank you, Miss Vecchio," Meg said, sniffing appreciatively. "That smells divine."

Frannie flashed her a grin, then made a beeline for the kitchen, where she found Turnbull cowering in the pantry. "All clear," she told him, before dashing out the door and plowing through the few bored reporters standing there. She was late for work. Again.

Meg stood at the door, leaning on the crutch. "What did the doctor say?"

Fraser told her. "Really, sir, I can perform my duties – "

"You're relieved, Constable," she said, firmly. She turned to go. "I'll be in my office."

"Yes, sir," he said, dejectedly.

She started to walk away, but turned back suddenly, catching the melancholy expression on his face. She gentled her tone. "Sick leave is not a punishment, Constable."

"Yes, sir. I mean ... no, sir," he said, dutifully, though clearly he did not agree.

That irritated her. "For heaven's sake, Fraser! You're in a library! Read a book!" With that, she wheeled on her good foot and stumped away.

He was still sitting in the chair staring at the bookshelves when Turnbull appeared with a tray. "I brought tea, sir," he announced, unnecessarily. He set the tray on the table in front of Fraser. It contained teapot and cup, milk and sugar. And a small, bulky envelope.

"That was delivered by courier a few minutes ago, sir." He straightened. "May I get you anything else?"

"No, thank you," Fraser said. As he turned to go, he called, "Actually, there is. Would you open the drapes?"

"Sorry, sir. The Inspector ordered all curtains are to remain closed until further notice." He grimaced. "Reporters."

"Right."

Turnbull started to pull the door closed.

"Leave it open, please," Fraser called.

Alone in the quiet gloom, the walls pressed in on him. So, did the events of the last few days. He lurched to his feet and held on to the furniture as he tottered to the shelves. He returned to his chair with the _Auditor General's Report on Citizenship and Immigration post-NAFTA: A Guide For Foreign Service Personnel_. He flicked on the reading lamp and leaned over the tome.

When he found himself reading the same paragraph over and over without comprehension, he set the book aside. It was no use. Cooped up in here, unable to distract himself with work or physical exertion, he couldn't stop the cycle of thoughts ... Marta's sweet face ... Christina's dimpled smile ... Meg trembling in his arms at O'Hare ... Victor and Ilsa embracing on the steps of the jet, as Ray watched ... Emil Strasser pleading for a second chance ... Louis Renault hurling him out of harm's way at the cost of his own life ... Victoria and himself. He pondered the unanswerable ... when was it wrong to keep a promise ... or right to break your word ... and how the power of love could lift the human heart or drag it down, and sometimes, do both at the same time ...

He silently berated himself for his weakness and poured now-cold tea into a cup. In his wallowing, he had forgotten all about the special delivery. He picked up the cream-colored envelope. It was addressed to him in an elegant hand. The symbol of the Diplomacy Ball – the hands clasped in friendship over the globe – was in the upper left corner. He tore it open.

He opened the small box of handcrafted leather. A gleaming solid silver tie clasp, sporting the globe-and-hands design, nestled inside. This year's commemorative favor. Mr. Thune's sources had proved accurate. It was beautifully made, as was the box it came in.

The other object in the envelope was not nearly as elegant. It was a large fishing lure, its silver finish tarnished by years and use to a rusty patina. The hooks were snipped; its few remaining feathers rather bedraggled. An old key dangled from it. He upended the envelope but there was nothing else. He held the key close to his face, wondering what it opened.

"That spinner has seen better days," a voice said.

Fraser looked up. His father sat in the adjoining chair, the one that Mrs. Harrington had vacated. He was dressed casually in jeans and old sweater. Silver stubble bristled on his chin.

"Where have you been, Dad?" he exclaimed, absurdly glad to see him. "It's been weeks!"

Bob looked puzzled. "You don't remember, son?"

"Remember what?"

"At the airfield. And ... uh ... before that."

"You were there?"

His father nodded.

Fraser frowned. "I don't remember. Sorry."

Bob leaned back in the chair. "Well, that's to be expected when you shoot up, son."

"I didn't shoot up, Dad! I was shot up!" At his father's skeptical expression, he insisted, "There's a difference!"

"If you say so, Benton." He shrugged. "Far be it from me to judge."

Fraser bit back his retort. It would only make his headache worse. He picked up his teacup and sipped.

"You're really just gonna laze around for seven days," his father grumped.

"I have my orders," he said, trying not to sound defensive. Trying and failing.

"Female officers," he sniffed. "Always trying to baby a man."

"The Inspector doesn't 'baby' anyone," he said, testily. "But, the doctor said – "

"Doctors! Don't get me started on them, son," he retorted. "I remember once when a doctor tried to keep me in bed. Oh, must have been December of 1963. Or was it '64? I had fallen through the ice at Destruction Bay on the trail of Siberian beaver poachers, when – "

To Fraser's immeasurable relief, Turnbull rapped on the doorjamb. "Detective Vecchio is on line 2, sir."

He snatched up the receiver and stabbed the lighted line. "Ray!"

"Benny! Hey, I just got a delivery from Walter Harrington."

"The tie clasp? I did as well."

"Yeah, but there was something else," he said, in a puzzled tone. "A map." The sound of his friend scratching his head came through loud and clear. "There's a red 'X' marked on it. Somewhere out in the sticks."

Fraser dangled the key before his eyes. "Is it perhaps on the Calumet River?"

"Yeah! How'd you know?"

He couldn't resist. "Elementary, my dear Ray," he said, in a passable English accent. At Ray's growl, he quickly explained what Walter Harrington had given them. A gift of time ... and space ... and friendship. Fraser marveled that, in spite of his power and wealth and wife, the billionaire still remembered these things. The fundamental things.

There was a pause. When Ray next spoke, Fraser heard the smile in his voice. "Pick you up out back in an hour?"

"I'll be ready, Ray." He was about to hang up, when he heard, "Wait, Benny!"

He brought the phone back to his ear. "Yes, Ray?"

"Bring the lasagne." The line went dead.

Fraser looked down at his rumpled clothes. He supposed he was ready now. He had nothing to pack since his apartment was off limits. Perhaps, they could stop once they were out of the city. A pair of jeans, another shirt, a pack each of underwear and socks should see him through the week. When he looked up again, his father was gone. He picked up the phone and buzzed the Inspector.


	32. Epilogue

**EPILOGUE**

Ray stacked another log on the fire, then straightened. He gripped the rough-hewn mantle in the great room with both hands. Walter Harrington had made a few changes over the years, adding a bedroom or two, a few amenities (Ray was especially grateful for the indoor plumbing), but his grandfather's cabin was essentially intact, down to the handmade furniture, crocheted afghans, and framed covers of the Saturday Evening Post. As soon as he had stepped over the threshold, Fraser knew with bedrock certainty that Tuppy Harrington had never set foot inside this refuge. There was nary a trace of pink.

Ray leaned his head on one arm. " ... then, I kissed her." He made a noise of derision in his throat. "With her husband just down the hall." He paused. "I like Victor. I really do. And, I'm happy for them. But, still ... I kissed her." His laugh was bitter. "Pretty rotten thing to do to the guy after all he'd been through, don't ya think?"

"It _was_ just a kiss, Ray," Fraser offered from the big rocker that faced the fire.

Ray brushed his fingers across his lips. "No, Benny. It wasn't."

"Understood," he said, softly.

Ray turned and faced him. "I've known her less than three days ... and now she's gone. To Lisbon, or Mykonos or Maui or wherever the hell they went." He ran his hands through his hair. "Christ! They have the whole world!"

"You'll always have Chicago," Fraser pointed out.

"Yeah?" he retorted, angrily. "And what's that? A few dances, a couple of kisses ... " He trailed off, his hands clenched in fists at his side. He stepped over Dief who was curled on the rug in front of the fire. Ray dropped to the couch and buried his face in his hands. "It's stupid to feel like this. Like ... like ... " He trailed off. He just didn't have the words.

"Like you had known her ... forever," Fraser finished for him.

Ray's head shot up.

"Across a thousand lifetimes," he continued, his voice husky. "And now that she's gone ... a part of you is gone, too."

"Yeah," Ray admitted. After a beat, he muttered, "It hurts."

"Yes."

They lapsed into silence, though it was a companionable one. Each man stared into the fire, lost in his own thoughts. The fire gradually died down to embers. Ray thought Benny had fallen asleep. His own eyelids were getting heavy, when he heard his voice. He had to strain to hear it.

"I ... I gave Louis Renault my word, Ray," he said, tentatively.

Ray waited, but he didn't say anything more. He couldn't make out Benny's expression in the dim light of the dying fire, but he could see the tension in the set of his shoulders, in the hands knotted on top of the afghan on his lap. Ray straightened on the couch and knuckled the sleep out of his eyes.

"Tell me," he said, simply.

Sometime later, Robert Fraser stood over his son. Ben slumped in the rocking chair, eyes closed, breathing deeply. The colorful afghan had fallen from his lap. His father bent and reached for it, but it slipped through his fingers. Or rather, his fingers slipped through it. He blew out a breath of frustration. The wolf stirred, lifting his head. When he saw the ghost, Diefenbaker grinned and thumped his tail before settling again.

Bob sat in the remaining chair and stared into the dying fire for a long while. He was startled to hear himself humming a tune. He was not a sentimental man. Not anymore. But, once upon a time, it had been _their_ song, his and Caroline's. She would sing and he would hum as they danced to the music they made. When Benton came along, she'd sing it to the boy every night before he went to sleep.

He glanced at his son's peaceful face. The night he told Ben of his mother's death, the child had pleaded, in his high, piping voice, "Sing it, Daddy. Sing 'As Time Goes By.'" To his everlasting shame, Bob had refused and when the boy began the song on his own, he had told him never to sing it again. Ben, a very proper and obedient child even then, never did.

The boy had inherited his mother's singing voice, thank heaven. But, Bob cleared his spectral throat and gave it a go, anyway. The lullaby was gruff, off-key, and missing a verse, but he was bringing it home with a flourish:

"_It's still the same old story,_

_a fight for love and glory,_

_a case of do or die – " _

"Who're you?" a voice said from his left.

Robert Fraser blinked at the sleepy-eyed detective staring at him from the couch. "Nobody," he blurted, then added, "You're dreaming. Go back to sleep."

"OK," Ray murmured, closing his eyes. "G'night."

"Good night." He looked at his sleeping son, then back at the man on the couch. He knew that this friendship, still at its beginning, would be as long and tumultuous and ... beautiful ... as his and Buck's had been. Like Kipling's Thousandth Man. He added, quietly, "Thanks, Yank."

Ray rolled over on his side. "No problem," he muttered, face turned away. And, with that, he was asleep again, snoring softly. The wolf chimed in, though louder. The combined sound provided a rhythmic counterpoint to the big finish.

"_The fundamental things apply,_

_As time goes by ..."_

The ghost and the song faded out on the last word.

**THE END**

**NOTES FROM THE AUTHOR:**

1. The poem _The Thousandth Man_ by Rudyard Kipling goes on for several verses, but condensing the first two lines with the last two sums it up:

One man in a thousand, Solomon says,

Will stick more close than a brother ...

But the Thousandth Man will stand by your side

To the gallows-foot and after!

2. _ Casablanca_ is my husband's and my favorite movie, and _As Time Goes By _is our song.

You know, the one we danced to at our wedding, always request from the band or dj at any dance (though it's rare that they have it), get all misty-eyed over when we hear it played or performed anywhere. We're very happy to share it with Bob and Caroline Fraser and Victor and Ilsa.

3. The short story that Fraser thinks about in the Chippewa Room in Chapter Four is

_The Lady Or The Tiger?_ by Frank Stockton. If you have never read it, I urge you to do so. It's justifiably a classic.

4. I must give a great deal of credit to Dilanne Tomas. In her story, _Heaven and Hell,_ she

described the effects of a taser on a captured Fraser. It inspired the parts of my story where poor Fraser is subjected to taser abuse. If you haven't read her stories, I encourage you to do so. She captures Ray and Fraser's friendship wonderfully. The medical research on taser abuse is as accurate as I could make it. Amnesty International has called attention to the use of tasers as an instrument of torture in many countries.

5. If you are a Casablanca fan, I hope you have enjoyed the references to that great movie. If

you haven't seen it ... well, I'd love to be able to see it again for the first time.

Even though I do not set up the love triangle between Fraser, Ray and Ilsa, I could have easily. It seemed to me that Fraser has many of the character traits of the movie version of Victor Laszlo in many ways, while Ray _is_ Rick. What do you think?

6. I promised this story sooner than this to those that told me they enjoyed my prior story,

_The Great Northern Maple Syrup Adventure _at the RCW 139 Thank You Kindly Convention back in August (2014). Sorry for the delay, guys, but real life intervened and I obsessively polish a story before letting it go. (My husband would say obsessively-compulsively).

I hoped you enjoyed this story. Please send feedback as I would love to hear from you.


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